


Split Infinitives

by Guede



Series: The Time Travel Grammar Book [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Humor, Baby Werewolves, Background Character Death, Biting, Cock Warming, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, F/M, Flash Forward, Irony, Jealousy, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Overstimulation, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Scenting, Single Parents, Young Chris Argent, Young Hales, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7550743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months later, Talia’s settling into her role as alpha, Peter’s at college, and the time-traveling trio of Stiles, Scott, and Lydia are getting used to the idea of staying put.  Sounds like a good time for some unexpected guests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Damn it,” Scott mutters under his breath. He and Alan drop down, him to try and stem the bleeding from the woman’s chest, Alan to check for a pulse, but he already knows they’re too late. She’s so far gone she doesn’t even look at them, just continues to stare blankly upwards as the life fades from her eyes.

Chris glances at them but keeps on walking towards the door across the room, which is standing ajar with a pair of feet visible through it. They’re lying straight out and Scott isn’t picking up any more heartbeats, but Chris still goes up to the doorway via sidling along the wall, his gun held out before him, and that’s probably the sensible approach, seeing as the…the now-dead woman out here is a werewolf.

Alan pulls back his hands with a frustrated sigh. He squats on his heels, looking up at Scott, and then catches himself from smearing blood all over the side of his face. Instead he presses the crook of his wrist against his temple as he shakes his head. “She’s gone.”

Scott already knew that, but he gives the other man a slow nod. Then he eases the woman’s body back onto the ground. Almost starts to tug her hands over her chest, to cover up that gaping wound, but he remembers they can’t do that yet. They still need to figure out what happened.

It’s a small, dilapidated shed on the outskirts of town—technically beyond Hale territory—with a long gallery running down one side of it that can be used as a hunting blind, and two tiny rooms splitting the other side. They’re in one of those rooms and it’s clear that someone, the woman from the smell, has been living in it for at least a couple of days. She probably brought the minifridge hooked up to the generator in the corner.

Frowning, Scott cocks his head and takes a closer look at the fridge. He breathes in deep, trying to suss out the smells under all the blood and piss, and…

“I think this driver’s license is a fake—Scott?” Alan says, looking up from where he’s been digging into the woman’s pockets. “What are you doing?”

Scott is jerking across the room and yanking open the fridge door. He stares at the line of baby food jars and the breast pump, still attached to a half-full bottle, and then he spins on his heel just as Chris calls his name, tone sharp and rising even sharper with urgency.

He runs into the other room, then catches himself against the wall as Chris lets out a low warning growl. Then he starts forward again, but more slowly, humming under his breath as reassuringly as he can, watching his beta. Chris is on his hands and knees with his back to Scott, head down to peer at something that’s squeezed between a couple crates and some…piece of machinery, Scott doesn’t really register it except to smell that it’s still got gasoline in it and that the gasoline is leaking out somewhere. Scott takes a quick glimpse around and then relaxes, noting that the room is as electricity-free as the rest of the place.

Then he eases up till he’s right behind Chris. His beta is covered from the waist up with cobwebs and dark, greasy streaks, as if he’s already tried to dive into the narrow space. “She’s caught on something,” Chris mutters, and then he takes a deep breath, pushing his arm into the gap. “He’s Scott, he’s okay, he’s—shit, Scott, can you—”

Scott still can’t hear or smell anything, but he purrs as loudly as he can. He watches Chris’ back and shoulders tense up and then there’s a soft scuff, like somebody’s scratching at metal. He also catches a heartbeat flutter that fades in and out like he’s listening through broken headphones. “She warded?”

“She’s got all these necklaces on,” Chris says. “I think I see charms, but—no, no, don’t move, you’ll hu—Scott? Scott, she’s—”

Chris’ voice is jerking towards panic, and then he stops talking and shoves both his hands into the space. He cuts himself, Scott smells his blood, and that just doubles down on top of pack-leader instincts to fix things. Scott slaps his hand against his hip to keep from getting totally mindless about it, then grimaces and lets out an alpha _freeze_ snarl.

The charms shift again and Scott catches a whiff of fear, which makes him wince, but then Chris lets out a bark, signaling he’s got her. He backs slowly out from the gap; he scrapes himself again and the smell of his blood spikes, but then Scott gets the first glimpse of a small, dirt-smeared head near Chris’ shoulder.

“There,” Chris grunts. He rolls back onto his heels, and then sits down hard as the little girl suddenly lunges at him. She’s trying to dive over his shoulder and he grabs at her, startled, and the girl whimpers and drops back into his lap just as suddenly.

A whole bunch of things fly out around them, accompanied by tinkling noises. One strikes Scott’s shin and he stoops and grabs it, then drops the charm as the girl’s heartbeat and smell and small, ragged breaths suddenly fill the room. He bites back another snarl, cramming it down till it turns into a purr, but the girl’s just completely frozen with fear where she’s crouched on Chris’ legs.

Chris still has his hand on her back and he slowly uncurls it, bits of thread and jewelry chain dropping as he does. He catches Scott’s eyes over the girl’s head and his eyes are wide and nervous. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Scott, do you…you should take—”

The girl suddenly presses herself against his front. Chris hisses a little and fresh blood spikes the air, but the girl whimpers and they both purr at her. Scott’s is a lot stronger; Chris sounds hesitant, awkward, his purr stop-starting as he lifts and lowers his hands on either side of the girl, still looking at Scott.

“She get you that deep?” Scott whispers.

“No, just kind of scratched a little,” Chris mutters. He glances at the girl and then stiffly picks a chain fragment out of her hair. When she whimpers at him, his eyes widen and he jerks his hand away as if he’d scratched _her_. “Uh, Scott? What—what—what am I supposed to do?”

“I think if she wants you, just let her for now,” Scott says after a second. He can’t help but be a little amused at the look Chris shoots him, as if he’s just asked the man to hold onto a live hand-grenade. But that goes away pretty fast as he remembers the rest of the scene. “It’ll keep her in one place while we figure out what happened here…just take her out to the car and, oh, you know, she’s probably…exactly, thanks.”

Alan smiles as he hands over the milk bottle, but then he sobers up. “The other two probably died before she did,” he says. “There’s a flare gun. I think she might have been crawling for that, possibly to signal someone.”

Scott looks at him, and then at Chris, who’s sucking in his breath. “Right,” Scott says. “Well, you and Chris get her back to town, that’s the most important thing.”

“I don’t think you should stay here by yourself,” Alan says, just as Chris starts up onto one knee. He pauses as the girl whimpers and Chris subsides, expression torn between guilt and very clear dislike of this whole idea. “I agree that we need to get her out, but it looks like the mother let the other two in. This clearly isn’t just a normal hunting ambush.”

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” Scott mutters. He debates a little bit, then sighs and pulls out his cell phone. At least they’re not so far from town that he doesn’t get reception. Still, it’s a single bar so he goes with a text. “But you two should still get going. Leave the ward-making kit and I’ll put up some. That should be fine for now, we didn’t pick up anybody on our way over so whoever she was trying to signal, I don’t think they’re that close.”

Alan still doesn’t look like he thinks that’s the best of their options, but he nods and says he’ll go pack up what he can find of the mother’s things, and also the baby food. Scott thanks him and then turns to hand Chris the milk bottle, only to find his beta glowering at him.

“I’m not going to argue, all right,” Chris mutters. He levers himself to his feet without using his arms, since one’s curled under the girl and the other is holding the bottle. “Just please tell me that you texted Lydia.”

“Well, of course,” Scott says. Then he sighs, as Chris keeps staring at him. “Look, you know she’s helping get ready for Talia’s uncle. But she’ll get hold of Stiles and I really won’t be out here for that long by myself.”

Chris is a lot smoother about dealing with the girl when he’s irritated with Scott, at least: he hefts the girl so her head slides off his shoulder, then pokes the bottle in front of her so her initial startled whine quickly dies off into a hungry fumble at that. “Is Stiles bringing Peter?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, blinking. “May—yeah, probably, he was planning on staying over, so if Peter’s there, he’ll come along. Why?”

“Well, I hate to admit it, but you blow up less stuff when anybody else is along with you two, even him,” Chris says. “Though I still think you get into too much trouble when Peter comes.”

Scott does smile at that, both because it’s true and because, well, he does understand irony, even if he doesn’t like to highlight it like Stiles does. “We’re just going to stay long enough to secure everything and then we’ll come straight back to town, I promise,” he says. “Not looking to pick any fights tonight.”

He shifts in and Chris dips his head, exasperation fading into something way, way more eager, and—the girl drops the bottle. Scott grabs it as it bounces off Chris’ back, but the girl starts to cry and Chris jiggles her a little, making shushing noises that do usually work on Cora, but that are a little loud. Also, he shoots Scott another nervous look.

“Here, sorry about that,” Scott says, walking around behind Chris so he can look the girl in the face. He smiles and hands her the bottle back, and while she doesn’t stop crying, she does stop sobbing. She’s worryingly quiet, actually, and he keeps smiling but makes a note to mention that to the others. “Get her clean, warm, and to bed. By then Stiles and I will probably be done here.”

“Yeah, well,” Chris mutters. He’s still bouncing the girl, but then she hiccups and he stops, looking as if he accidentally made her choke or something serious like that. “Scott, I really…I’m not sure…”

“Just go, you’ll be fine, you’re good with Cora, and then Talia can help when you guys get there,” Scott says. He puts his hand on Chris’ shoulder, then slides it briefly up to the side of Chris’ neck as he walks back around the other man. 

He feels Chris’ cheek press against his wrist, but makes himself not look over. They need to go, and Scott needs to…he looks at the two bodies crumpled on the floor in this room, then breathes out slowly. He needs to take care of the others, too.

* * *

“I was starting to think I’d have to call the library security again and have them kick you out,” Peter says, letting his boyfriend in.

Stiles laughs and slings his arm over Peter’s shoulders and nuzzles right for the spot behind Peter’s ear that makes Peter sound _exactly_ like a startled puppy, all without looking up from the book he’s reading. And then, when Peter belatedly elbows him, side-steps so somehow that ends up pushing them closer, so Peter has to turn his head to avoid a collision with Stiles’ chin and so glances across the book.

A couple minutes later, realizing they’ve plopped into his bed, Peter finally drags himself out of the bestiary to glower at the other man. “That’s not fair,” he says. “Every time I distract _you_ , you’re always talking about how I’m going to cause the apocalypse. You distract me and you just get to steal from the archives again.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Stiles says. He’s moved onto another book, and has his laptop open too, propped up on the windowsill beside him while he frowns and fiddles with a spreadsheet. His hand slides up Peter’s back, then curls loosely over the side of Peter’s neck as Peter noses his way under Stiles’ chin. The little quirk of his mouth says he knows what he’s doing, getting out the apology first thing, and also, what Peter is doing. “And actually, my please-forgive-me-adorbs gift is the other thing in the bag there.”

Peter huffs, because damn it, he’s not easy, even if he gets a ridiculous little glow in his chest—not the same one that’s burning his cheeks right now—whenever Stiles uses one of his multitude of nicknames for Peter. “You’re a terrible person. You can’t bribe your way out of every single relationship problem.”

“Oh, I know, trust me, that is the reason why when Lydia calls me, I am arming up before I even answer,” Stiles says. He taps a few keys, then saves and glances over at Peter. Amused, of course, but also, genuine about the apology. “Seriously, sorry. I could make up an alibi but I’ll save you the detective work and just say I spaced out and forgot to check the time.”

“You always do when you get into that section,” Peter mutters, but he’s already sighing and bending over the side to get at Stiles’ bag.

He should be madder—he should at least keep up the irritation till he gets Stiles to stop being so late all the time. It’s a huge peeve of Peter’s when people are late on him and he’s used it as justification for why he might have deliberately let them fall into their own messes before, but…well, Stiles is always going to be different where that comes in, and frankly, Peter thinks he should be more uncomfortable with how comfortable he already is about that.

But what makes him uncomfortable, to be honest, is how up front about his screw-ups Stiles is. Sure, the man comes in with bribes and maximum use of Peter’s soft spots, but then he’ll just say it’s his fault, no prevarications or anything. And he gets all amused about how Peter cuddles up to do his scolding, but at the same time Peter often gets the impression that if he were really upset, Stiles would just leave. Stiles doesn’t confess so fast to make less of the confession; he’s doing it to push up when they’re going to fight, if they are going to.

Peter thinks about telling him that there’s a difference between annoying and actually worth a fight, but ultimately drops that in favor of pulling out the…bag of double-chocolate mint chip cookies from his favorite bakery. Which requires a little bit of a detour between the university archives and his dorm. “You’re so late I already brushed my teeth,” he says, sticking them on the dresser.

“The sink is literally right there,” Stiles says, raising a brow. “If you don’t want to get off the bed, I could probably hold your hips and you could stretch that far.”

“Any excuse to get your hands on my butt, I see,” Peter snorts. He moves his book to the dresser, too, and then twists fully around and slides his head back against Stiles’ shoulder. “But now I’m comfortable, and anyway, I can’t stay up late tonight. We have to go back home early tomorrow, I should’ve been asleep a half-hour ago.”

Stiles snorts and acts like he’s going back to reading, but his hand drifts from Peter’s shoulder down Peter’s arm. It pauses for a few seconds on Peter’s elbow, then twists under that, splaying across Peter’s ribs as Peter, who is honestly starting to doze, absently nuzzles the other man’s chest. “I think you sleep plenty. Every time I come here, you’re napping on me within five minutes of me showing up. If I didn’t have a nice, healthy ego, I might—”

“Don’t be silly, you know it’s an important part of my anti-evil treatment,” Peter murmurs.

“Your what?” Stiles says after a second, faintly incredulous.

“Mmm, well, you did say once that the other ones always wanted to waste bedtime plotting evil villain plans and that sort of thing, clearly they weren’t doing it right,” Peter says. He’s not really thinking it through, just…not blocking those strange, vaguely logical thoughts that come up when you’re drifting between sleeping and waking states. “Need at least two hours a day, except you’re always late.”

“Two hours…of cuddling me?” Stiles says.

He sounds thrown enough for it to worm into Peter and be naggy, so Peter reluctantly nudges his head up. Which is silly, since all he can see is the underside of Stiles’ chin. “Yes?”

Stiles shifts, withdrawing most of his shoulder from under Peter, and Peter starts to sit up, only to get tugged sharply across the other man. His hands slip out from under him and he sprawls, grunting, offering no resistance whatsoever when Stiles tips his chin up and grins down at him. 

“Cute,” Stiles says, voice warm with an affection that feels like a thick comforter wrapped around in wintertime. His eyes are even warmer, and just dark enough to burn off the lingering sleepiness in Peter’s mind and replace that with a different kind of haze. “And I guess that’s why you keep stealing my pajamas, too.”

When he says that, his thumb moves just a little at the corner of Peter’s mouth, just like it might rub in between Peter’s lips. Peter sucks his breath in anticipation and then Stiles’ _other_ hand, which he’d semi-forgotten about, makes its presence known by rumpling up the back of Peter’s shirt. And yes, that’s really Stiles’ shirt, and Peter is a _little_ more muscled since they first met but Stiles has a very, very loose relationship with clothing sizes, so the shirt still has plenty of give.

But even with all that fabric, Stiles’ touch goes straight through it and burns down into the skin of Peter’s back. Peter sucks his breath again, shifting so that he’s lying on the man, not just fallen on him, and smiles up at Stiles. “Did you want them back?” he says. “Because I guess I can change—”

“You’re such a little,” Stiles half-laughs, half-growls as he catches Peter’s hand halfway to reaching for the shirt.

Catches Peter’s mouth, too, and he’s still laughing a little but the kiss is not funny at all. It’s dead serious, turning Peter’s knees to water before he’s even had a chance to kiss back. And then Stiles is already moving on, nipping at the side of Peter’s throat as Peter scrabbles for handholds against Stiles’ chest, breathless and moaning and pushing his hips down so that Stiles chuckles, crooks up his thigh and Peter just is plain _grateful_ for it. Finally getting his hands to Stiles’ shoulders and clinging off them as his body roars off on its own, shivering into the palms Stiles has dipped into the pajama pants and wrapped around his hips.

Stiles has spent tons of time around werewolves, anybody can see that. With the way he doesn’t usually kiss Peter for a greeting, but sniffs at him, and how he always, always goes for the neck. Which is so frustrating, honestly, Peter would like to get in a—something first. Something, but he keeps ending up like this, just rolled over onto his back and holding on for dear life as Stiles rolls up his shirt and mouths at the skin under it, teasing Peter’s belly right up to one nipple.

Frustrating, but Peter forgets about it as he whines and arches up into Stiles, only to get smoothed effortlessly back down by hands skinning down his sides and hips, pulling at his pants. And the werewolf thing, right, Stiles—he leaves off lipping Peter’s brains out through that nipple to just press his nose into a rumpled-up bunch of Peter’ shirt, inhaling loudly, and he can’t scent like a werewolf, Peter knows that, but he certainly _reacts_ like one, his fingers closing tight around each of Peter’s thighs and Peter immediately jerks them apart, whimpering.

“Awww, aww, okay, I thought you wanted to nap,” Stiles snickers. He gives Peter’s untouched nipple a smacking, showy kiss that still makes Peter shiver, then climbs up till he’s got his elbows planted on either side of Peter’s head. “Then again, I guess we could do the whole dirty old man thing and talk about putting you to bed right, and—”

“You’re such an _asshole_ ,” Peter gasps, grabbing at Stiles’ waistband.

He leans up and Stiles leans down, eyes molten now, and—Stiles’ phone goes off. And suddenly Peter’s lying on the bed, his shirt yanked up under his armpits, his pants pushed to his knees, and there’s nothing between those two points but disappointingly cool air.

“Sorry, but that’s the Lydia signal,” Stiles says, like Peter doesn’t know that.

Peter forces down his irritation. It takes a second or two, and then he manages to pull himself up and yank his clothes back into place. Then he slides over to peer over Stiles’ shoulder, because yes, Lydia, and she never calls false alarms.

He also grabs for his phone, and the stupid thing squirts out from under his hand and off the dresser, so he has to look away before he sees Lydia’s message to catch it. “I don’t have any messages from Talia,” he says, looking back. “At least it’s not my—”

“Nope, still clear on the family front,” Stiles says, standing up. He shoves his phone into his pocket, then grimaces and takes it back out, and gives his jeans a few more tugs. Then he looks around, absently fidgeting with the phone. “Though we’re gonna…no, you know what, Scott’s probably sent them over to your family’s place, we don’t need to get anything. I think I should have everything still in my car.”

“Who and what?” Peter says crossly, because again, he didn’t get to see the message.

Stiles glances back, then looks sheepish. “Oh, sorry,” he says, holding out the phone for Peter to see.

“‘Scott accidental baby acquisition,’” Peter reads. “That’s…that’s the whole message?”

“It’s Scott, that’s plenty,” Stiles says, walking over to Peter’s closet. “Come on and get dressed, I’ll explain on the way.”

* * *

“Mom,” Derek says.

Talia hauls out the last of the load from the dryer, then nudges the full basket aside with her foot. She straightens up, reaching for the wash, and almost ends up slinging her eldest daughter into the dryer. “Laura,” she snaps, and then she pulls herself back to just a sharp look. “I told you not to climb up here.”

“I know, but you were gonna forget the baggies and Lydia says her blouses _need_ the baggies,” Laura says earnestly, while holding out her armful of mesh.

“She does say that,” Talia acknowledges. She takes the mesh bags from Laura, but then sets her child down before moving the wash over, and yes, putting Lydia’s delicates into the bags.

“Mom,” Derek says again.

Laura switches sides to stand near the basket of dry laundry and for a moment Talia wonders if her eldest has started to grow up. But then Laura just fluffs a blanket that is hanging over the basket side and Talia notes that no, she’s still a little child. “Mom, Mom, is the new baby a boy or a girl?” she asks, bouncing on her toes. “I want a girl. I don’t want another boy, I already have Derek and I wanna girl so she can be on one side and Cora can be on the other. Derek can be in the back.”

“Talia?” Lydia calls. “Which stuffed bear is it? They both have claw marks on the ears.”

“Laura, as a good _host_ , we’re going to be nice to the baby till we can find their _pack_ ,” Talia says. She looks at her daughter and Laura blinks hard, then nods, clearly crestfallen. Talia hesitates, then sighs and drops the wash into the dryer and then bends down to ruffle Laura’s hair. “Now go sniff and tell Lydia which bear Cora won’t mind letting the baby borrow for now, would you?”

“Okay!” Laura says, running off, enthusiasm restored.

Shaking her head, Talia gets back up. She glances in the washing machine to see if she missed anything, then shuts the lid and reaches for the dryer sheets. Except something clamps hard around her leg. “Derek, if you can just wait a few minutes for me to finish this—”

“ _Mom_ ,” Derek says urgently, squeezing her calf. When she looks down, he braces his little shoulders and that alone would wipe away all of her irritation at him. But then on top of that, he lets go of her leg and then grabs a handful of her jeans, using his other hand to point at the garage. “Mom, the spell is yellow.”

Talia looks up, less because of what Derek is saying and more because she just wants him to let her finish up the laundry before Chris and Deaton show up, and thinks a quick glance will satisfy him. But then she sees that he’s right, the door wards are lighting up, and she barely stops herself from cursing in front of him.

“Yes, it is, so we’d better get ready,” she says, stooping down. She scoops up her son in one arm and then sets him on the washing machine. “Just stay there for a second, all right? Lydia? Lydia, they’re—”

“I saw it, I’ll meet you at the front door,” Lydia calls back. “Putting Cora in her pen.”

“All right,” Talia calls back, distracted because she knows she just had the dryer sheets and where on earth they’d—she sighs at herself, then pulls up and smiles at Derek, who helpfully holds out the box for her. “Thank you, now down you go—” she pops in the sheet, nudges the dryer shut with her hip, and moves her son to the floor in the same motion “—and let’s go meet our guest, shall we?”

Derek doesn’t go on like Laura does, but every inch of him is just as excited. He more bounces than walks next to her, looking around their house with wide eyes as if he’s never seen it before.

They have only just moved in. After a fair amount of debate, Talia and Peter had settled on a large plot of land at the very edge of a development fronting the preserve, still close enough to town to come with utilities like a public sewer line, but far enough so that they can keep their nearest neighbors at a reasonable distance. Talia had to drop more money than she liked, even with everyone chipping in a share, but the builders managed to get the whole thing up just as the summer ended.

And that’s with protections worked directly into the foundation and the support structure itself. Talia doesn’t think she’s ever been anywhere like it, where magic literally seeps out of floor in subtle, slightly shimmery waves, and to be honest, she’s not used to it yet herself.

Her children seem to be a little more adaptable: Derek’s already in the habit of stepping on certain tiles in the entryway, just because he likes the patterns that makes, and Laura’s gotten so good at manipulating the spells that she can already work the ones on the front door. Which, Talia thinks with more than a little exasperation, are supposed to include child-safety locks.

“But _Mom_ ,” Laura pouts as Talia scoops her up. “Mom, I can hear the car. I think I can even hear Scott! Hear that, he’s singing my song!”

“I know, but you need to not scare the poor baby,” Talia scolds her daughter. “They’ve been through a terrible time and they don’t know anyone, and we have to be nice to them.”

“I know that,” Laura starts indignantly.

Then she looks over Talia’s shoulder and she goes quiet. It’s abrupt enough for Talia to turn around, half-prepared to chew Lydia out for whatever weapon she’s brought up—she and Stiles have gotten better, but they’re still very cavalier about what they expose the kids too, for Talia’s tastes—only to blink hard instead. Because Lydia, with a little smirk that says she knows exactly what was Talia’s initial reaction, is carrying nothing but an old stuffed bear that Cora no longer likes.

Talia sniffs and not only has Lydia descented the bear, she’s gone and rescented it with clean woodland smells, grass and earth and just a little bit of leaf litter, which will say _den_ to any werewolf. “That should help,” Talia admits.

“Scott probably already has them charmed to adore him, but we do need to see about the rest of us,” Lydia says.

She moves around them and opens the door, then steps through it as headlights pull up, turning into the curve of the cul-de-sac in front of the house. Lydia holds up her hand to shield her eyes and that’s when the light shining over her shows Talia the outline of a gun tucked under Lydia’s dress.

Talia purses her lips, then shakes her head and just comes out after Lydia. She takes Derek by the hand to make sure he doesn’t run ahead, but that’s not really necessary, as it turns out: Chris is already halfway up the yard, and in another second he’s come to a ragged stop before them, frantic from the way he’s bouncing the baby in his arms to the look he turns on Talia.

“She keeps _hiccupping_ ,” he says urgently. “I’ve been patting her for three miles and she won’t stop, what am I doing—”

Lydia glances briefly at the child but continues on past him, aiming for Deaton, who’s still at the car. She drops the stuffed bear off with Derek, who reaches out to grab it with both hands and so frees up Talia’s hand so that she can reach for the coat wrapped around the baby.

Just as she touches the folds covering the baby’s head, they jerk with a surprisingly loud hiccup. Chris lets out a distressed whine; to his credit, he does try to fight it, but that just makes it sound even more strangled. The baby jerks again, then starts to wail.

“Mom, is she okay?” Laura says.

“Well, she’s scared, let’s just see,” Talia mutters, setting her daughter down. Then she straightens up and tries again to pull back the coat, but the baby twists away from her, into Chris. Talia tries purring, but that just scares the baby even more.

“Damn it,” Chris says. He’s trying to turn the baby to face Talia, but she must have hold of his clothes because he’s clearly fighting something. “Damn it, she was—”

“She’s not going to have the air to hiccup now, so try and sound less angry, would you?” Talia says, in as smooth and gentle a tone as she can manage. 

She switches from purring to a deeper, more commanding rumble, in case the baby simply needs instruction. It seems to work for a couple seconds, long enough for Chris’ posture to start to relax, and then the baby—does something that makes him yelp and fumble his grip on her. He doesn’t drop her, but he does end up flashing his fangs as he steadies her.

“Did you bite him?” Laura says. She’s tiptoed up to nearly be between Talia and Chris, her head tipped all the way back as she tries to get a glimpse of the baby’s face. Then she skitters to behind Chris to try that view. “Don’t bite him, we like Chris.”

“He’s okay,” Derek says, edging up after his sister. He lifts up the bear, then lowers it, squinting up at the baby just like Laura is.

Talia grimaces and glances at Chris, but thankfully the man seems too busy trying to pry out the baby’s claws to be listening. “Derek.”

Her son looks back at her, blinking in confusion, and then he ducks and grabs his head as a small foot suddenly drops out of the bottom of the coat bundle. It missed him by a few inches, but he still eyes it suspiciously. His head tilts and then, before Talia can stop him, he reaches out and—pulls something off the foot. A twig.

The baby yanks her foot up, the movement boosting her other end over Chris’ shoulder, and Laura makes a delighted sound from behind Chris. “Hey, it’s a girl! She’s cute!” Laura says. She smiles and waves up at the baby. “Hi, I’m Laura. I’m an alpha.”

“She’s dirty,” Derek says, frowning and handing Talia the twig. “We should give her a bath. I bet she’s mad ‘cause she smells so bad.”

“I think…I think she’s calming down?” Chris says doubtfully, head craned back to peer into the coat. “She stopped hiccupping.”

Talia starts purring again as she eases up and finally gets a good look at the child. She’s undersized but Talia thinks she looks a bit older than Deaton had mentioned on the phone. Not a baby, a toddler, and probably Cora’s age, but she is dirty, stinking grease smeared all over her. And her arms look thin to Talia, which nearly makes a growl rise in Talia’s throat. Werewolf children are hardy but they need more calories, what with the higher metabolism their supernatural nature demands. That makes them more vulnerable in their first few years, since any interruption in their food supply can leaving them teetering on the edge of starvation.

“We’ll wash her, but she needs to eat first,” Talia says.

Chris shoots her an alarmed look, which makes no sense until Deaton walks up, a cooler bag slung over his shoulder. “We found a breast pump and some milk and baby food,” Deaton says. “Chris gave her the milk on the way, but it wasn’t very much, maybe two ounces.”

He’s smartly already opening the bag so she can see the food. Talia takes a handful of the jars out and looks them over, then drops them back in. “Well, Cora stopped nursing early so I’m beyond dry, but we can thin out some of these,” Talia mutters. “But one of you is going to have to run to the store for formula. If she’s used to a mix of this and milk, we can’t just take away the milk all at once.”

“I’ll go,” Deaton says, just as Chris opens his mouth.

Deaton transfers the cooler bag to Talia and then about-faces for the car. Lydia’s down there, looking at something in the back, and she calls a question out to Deaton about the girl’s mother. Chris had still been looking like he might argue about going too, but at that point he shuts his mouth and reluctantly resettles the girl in his arms. Talia looks at him and he grimaces and looks away from her.

“So we should get her inside, right?” he says. He’s leaning slightly away from her.

“Yes, we should.” Talia is a little surprised at his body language; he’s not Scott—frankly, no one remotely comes close—but he’s become reasonably decent at looking after Cora. He’s good enough that she doesn’t mind leaving her kids with him for a couple hours, even if he’s not her first choice when it comes to babysitters. “Well, all right, Derek, Laura, get back in, and—”

She reaches for the girl. She’s standing behind her, so the baby shouldn’t even know, but somehow the girl senses it and clenches forward. Clawing Chris again, judging from the pained hiss he makes.

“She keeps doing that,” Chris mumbles, giving Talia a half-irritated, half-sheepish glance. “I was going to drive but she wouldn’t go with Deaton either.”

“Did she see you first?” Talia asks.

Chris nods distractedly. He’s slung one arm under the girl so that he can rub at his shoulder, probably to keep from having bits of his clothes heal in his wounds. “But Scott was there just a second later.”

“Well, we should try not to disrupt her life more than we have to right now,” Talia says. “Laura, show Chris which bathroom to use, would you? And Derek…”

“Mom?” Derek says, looking up from where he and Laura are puppeting the stuffed bear for the girl to see.

The girl isn’t making any noises, but from the position of her head, she’s watching the bear, and she does smell less afraid. Talia smiles at her children, and then gives them each a ruffle on the head as she shoos them after Chris. “Just check on Cora for me, please, and make sure she’s still sleeping. Then you can help your sister with our guest.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

He and Laura end up leading Chris more than anything, Laura abandoning the stuffed bear to bounce ahead, babbling at Chris to hurry up. Talia does worry sometimes that she’s not giving her children enough guidance, what with everything else she has to take care of, but if tonight is any sign—Talia jerks, hearing a sharp crack, and then spins around.

“Deaton just drove over a branch, wards aren’t going off,” Lydia says, coming back up to her. The other woman has her phone out and is displeased by whatever the texts are saying. “Stiles and Peter are out there with Scott and they’re working on clean-up. Stiles says we probably want to move the bodies. At least one of them is a magic-worker.”

“A druid?” Talia says. “An Emissary?”

“I think if that were the case, Deaton would be much more rattled. More likely we’re dealing with one of the hunting families who don’t mind a little magic-working,” Lydia says. She’s a good deal less tart than she normally would be, and her scent…

It took several months for Talia to figure out exactly how being a banshee changed the smell of Lydia’s emotions, partly because Lydia dislikes discussing it, Scott politely defers to her, and Stiles has an annoying way of laughing and just saying that that’s her thing if Talia tries to ask him. But Talia can damn well be stubborn when she wants to—just ask her brother—and she’s kept tabs on it. She thinks she has most of the emotions broadly mapped to scents now, and the nuances are only a matter of time.

But it’s not really a matter of nuance how Lydia smells right now, and that happens to be very, very bitter. Talia picks up that particular scent whenever the subject of past timelines comes up.

“We know her,” Lydia abruptly says. She looks up from her phone, so serene in the face of Talia’s surprise that Talia knows the woman is fighting viciously with herself, and then she gives Talia a dismissive smile. “Well, a version of her, of course. She used to be a classmate of ours. Stiles and Scott were closer to her, so I’m just letting you know they’ll be a little…sensitive.”

“Did Stiles tell Peter?” Talia says.

Lydia blinks hard. She’s the surprised one, for some reason. Then she grimaces and glances back at her phone. “He would be—no, no, wait. Scott’s there. He would have, at least—Peter probably knows at least as much as I just told you, though feel free to text him if you want to make sure.”

“I try not to meddle that much in my brother’s relationship,” Talia sighs. She pauses for another moment, then steps back.

After a long look, Lydia twitches a wrinkle out of her blouse and then comes forward. She walks up the yard with long, sure strides, easily keeping pace once Talia’s swung alongside her, despite the several inches of difference in their heights. Her stride doesn’t break either, when Talia goes ahead and lightly rests her hand on Lydia’s back.

“I barely knew her, our her,” Lydia says, just as they reach the doorway. It’s wide enough to accommodate both of them side-by-side, but she pivots so she’s sideways to Talia. Flicks the hair out of her eyes with a quick toss of her head, while Talia’s turning to meet her, and just happens to lean forward with that movement so they’re nearly pressing together. “I doubt our timeline is going to offer much of an explanation here. Or any of the…she was a born wolf in only a handful of those, and she…no, none of those fit either.”

Lydia’s thinking aloud, something she usually lets Stiles do for her. Talia nods and does her best to not look as concerned as she is. “We’ll see what the others bring back. And I should—I’ll give David a call, ask if he can wait. He shouldn’t mind holing up in a hotel for an extra day, he never minds more time to make an entrance. That’ll give us some time to work this out.”

“That will also make him suspicious, from what you’ve said about him,” Lydia says pointedly. “I thought we were having him over because he’d be the hardest to manage from a distance.”

“Well, he is, but he’s also not someone I want—” Talia stops herself.

Unfortunately, Lydia knows her rather well now. “Not someone you want to what?” she says, very sweetly. “Want around when you think we’re emotionally disturbed?”

“You do tend to shoot a lot more people like that,” Talia says dryly.

“They tend to deserve it,” Lydia says, just as dryly. Her shoulders move as if she means to step back, but instead she puts her hands on Talia’s arms. Her mouth stays half-parted for a few seconds before she speaks. “We’ll be fine. It won’t be the first time we’ve doubled up.”

“Yes, I know, I remember how we met,” Talia says.

Lydia gives her a sharp look. Then she snorts, pressing up again, and Talia can’t help a slight inhale as their breasts shift against each other; Lydia smiles very indulgently at her, just before tipping up and pecking the side of Talia’s mouth. “The method _has_ historically been successful with your family—”

She’s deliberately slow in pulling back, and Talia is a hair away from catching up to her mouth and overtaking it when both of their phones go off: Lydia’s with Stiles’ ringtone, Talia’s with Peter’s. Talia curses under her breath, stepping away from the other woman. And then curses _again_ when she reads the text.

“As I was saying,” Lydia sighs. “Your family. Really.”

* * *

Stiles tries for a couple more minutes, but his heart isn’t in it and his head is, politely speaking, a mess, so finally he strips off the latex gloves and tells Scott and Peter he’s going out for air. He’s being an asshole, since they still have one more body to wrap up in plastic, and Scott being Scott, he’s going to get that done even if his guts are falling out and Stiles is just putting all of that on him. But he just—he needs a second.

Which is what he tells Peter when Peter comes right out after him. “She was…I don’t know, I actually didn’t know her that well, the first time around,” he says. He shivers and then gives his upper arms an angry rub, because he still sticks to flannel shirts for a lot of reasons, but also, because they’re supposed to be warm. “Scott was more involved in that, I was mostly there for Scott, and she died way, way before the plague hit and all that stuff.”

“And she’s not even this one,” Peter ventures after a second. He’s a little loud, a little brash, and he’s deliberately standing slightly behind Stiles so Stiles would have to turn to see the worry in his face. “She’s a couple months younger than Cora, she could turn out to be a completely different—well, not diff—she’s—”

Stiles can’t help but laugh a little bit as Peter’s frustration comes out in his stammering. “Time-travel existentialism is a bitch and no amount of mind-altering substances helps with that. Just so you know.”

“And how do _you_ know that?” Peter says, coy and needling at the same time. Their usual banter, almost.

Almost. Then Stiles can’t figure out what to say next, and he’s mentally calling himself a sarcasm washout when Peter sighs and slides over and—and hugs him. Peter’s still mostly beside him, but Peter’s head presses into the back of Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles can’t see his face and even without that, Stiles feels like a jackass.

“Did you know her mother, too?” Peter asks, a little more quietly.

Stiles shakes his head. He wiggles the hand he’s got trapped between his and Peter’s legs, then gives up on that and just reaches across with his other hand to hold onto the elbow Peter has digging into his chest. It’s awkward but he doesn’t want to shove Peter away to touch him. “Nope. Just her. And it’s…it’s okay, it’s just—you know, we try and check and find out at least if somebody was born here or not, and she didn’t come up…but if she’s a born werewolf here, I guess that explains how we missed it. I mean, this happens. We get surprised. We roll with it, you know.”

Peter hums. Shifts a little, and then a little more, working himself around Stiles till his head’s on the other side of Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles takes another breath and then looks at his…his, he still has a hard time believing that. 

But this, this is real. Whatever surprises show up now, this is already real. 

“Okay,” Stiles says. He takes a deep breath, looking at Peter, and then pulls out his phone and shoots Lydia a text. “Okay. Freak-out over. I’m ready to get on with the illegal crime scene tampering and figure out how to god _damn_ it, really? Really?”

That’s not to Peter, that’s to the asshole who decided now was a great time to sneak up on them. They knew enough to sidestep Scott’s hasty territory-marking scratches on a tree trunk, but didn’t quite dodge the detector spell Stiles cast on a bush near that, and so Stiles snaps his fingers and the whole woods light up.

Peter’s already twisted around and he takes a step forward before Stiles catches his arm. He looks annoyed, especially when Scott darts out past them, heading straight for the intruder. “It’s way, way more satisfying to make fun of them after Scott’s through with them,” Stiles says, sliding his hand up to Peter’s shoulder.

Which Peter shakes off, though then he grabs Stiles’ wrist as they head after Scott. “You mean after Scott’s sat down and bored them with his principles?” he mutters. “It’s only fun if they’re still sane enough to understand I’m making fun of them.”

“You’re such a cute little sadist,” Stiles says, tugging his wrist over so Peter’s knuckles bump into his leg.

Peter sniffs, like he isn’t totally letting Stiles lead the way. It’s about thirty yards to where Stiles’ wards have the intruder caught about ten feet off the ground; Scott’s already done one walk-around and he squints up at…the man, then jumps up and snags something that’s dangling from the man’s pocket.

A string of descenting charms, since Peter sniffs again, starts, and then jerks forward. “You’re supposed to show up tomorrow!” he says angrily, stalking up under the man. “And don’t tell me, you just _happened_ to be wandering around near a triple kill.”

“And hello to you too, my dear nephew,” says the man. He’s tilted with his feet higher than his head, but is obviously trying to make himself look like he’s lounging, and is almost pulling it off. “Kill? Is your sister dating again?”

“Very funny, that’s going to win her over,” Peter says, after a pause so short Stiles isn’t sure anyone else would’ve caught it. “Besides, you’re speaking from the bottom of a swamp, if the last couple reunions are anything to go by.”

The man laughs. It’s a little tight, as he’s trying to twist around to see Stiles and Scott at the same time. “Thank you, Peter, you’re always a wonder. Now, I take it you’re the new Emissary? Talia _is_ improving on her father.”

When they were helping the Hales move to the new house, Talia dug up a few family albums for everybody to leaf through, but with werewolves and their whole photo strobe-eye thing, it’s always better to meet them in person. For one, Stiles can see that the man takes after whichever side of the family Talia favors: dark brown eyes, which sparkle like Disney fairy dust, and loose dark curls, a bit like Peter except for the sprinkle of silver hairs. The cheekbones are more prominent than with Peter, and the jawline’s more like Talia too.

“We specifically said that that’s not what I _am_ in the confirmation email,” Stiles sighs. He twitches the wards apart, with an extra downward flex so the man won’t have the time to flip around and catch himself. Then he steps back so that the small wave of pebbles and leaf litter the impact sends up won’t get on his shoes. “Don’t tell me, you didn’t see the attachment?”

The man lands on one arm and hip with a sharp grunt, then immediately rolls onto his front. He pants for a second, then pushes himself back onto his knees. “Well, my apologies,” he says, still catching his breath. He lifts his head and his gaze goes up with the motion, then drops back down. Way down. “I did think you looked a little young. The druids always seem to find the most well-preserved-looking recruits, whatever their age.”

“I…am not sure what that was insulting, but I think Deaton looks all right,” Scott mutters.

“My uncle’s eyesight is damaged, anyway,” Peter also mutters. He’s stepped back beside Stiles, and now he grabs at Stiles’ hand while glowering down at the man. “Or his brain. I wasn’t allowed to see how badly Dad beat you into that wall, after all.”

“Yes, well, my brother, may his soul never walk, did have a nasty habit of trying to unnecessarily rearrange the natural order,” the man says in a careless tone. 

He smiles up at them and Stiles feels Peter’s fingers tighten around his hand. The man’s eyes shoot there, and his smile widens a little. Then he pushes himself up to his feet, dusting himself off: he dresses a little bit like Derek adjusted for the period’s fashion trends, all darks topped off by a leather coat. 

“Fortunately,” he goes on, bending and popping his spine. He hisses a little and his eyes happen to flick to Stiles, and then he slouches in obvious relief. “I’m somewhat more forgiving. At least, I try to be. I did answer your sister’s email, didn’t it?”

That’s when he looks over at Peter, who is going to break his collarbone if he bridles any more. “What are you doing here, and who _else_ did you bring, Uncle?” Peter says icily.

“What, no introductions?” said uncle says, turning to Scott and then Stiles. “I’m David. You have to be Mr. McCall, and if you’re not the Emissary—”

“We aren’t designating one, and you did read the attachment, you’re just pretending you didn’t,” Peter snaps.

“You must be Stiles,” David says, with extra drawl.

Scott coughs into his hand. It kind of sounds like _try not to, please._

“I know,” Stiles says, blinking. “I totally know, and I am exercising incredible restraint here. Incredible. And it’s just so incredibly goddamn irritating that Lydia can’t see this.”

“Well, she will, when we drag him home, and then we’ll see how far you get,” Peter says, his irritation getting more immense by the word. He’s playing off Stiles but speaking to David. “Between her and Talia, I don’t know, we just might end up thinking we don’t need an uncle, period.”

“Peter, honestly,” David says. When he adds the headshake and the tsking noise, Stiles recalls himself enough to tug Peter back. It might make David smirk but whatever, like Stiles hasn’t run that routine into the ground. “I thought you liked me better than Carlo.”

“Well, that’s not a high bar, considering he tried to _kill_ Talia and me,” Peter snaps.

David twitches. Peter doesn’t catch it, he’s so angry, but his uncle’s been shifting ever since he got to his feet, repositioning himself not so that he can confront them all but so he’s nearer to a break in the underbrush, the clearest exit he’s got. Stiles doesn’t look over at Scott but he flicks out three fingers with his free hand, letting his buddy know the wards do go that far.

“True,” David says. He pauses for emphasis, and then tries out a slightly less patronizing smile. “Well, I don’t hold his death against either of you, you know.”

“That’s because you’ve been hoping Carlo would get himself killed in a fight for years,” Peter says tartly.

“Well, you were his family too, could you blame me?” David says. He’s starting to get ruffled, and it seems genuine. “You didn’t even have to grow up with that musclebound moron. The only use we ever got out of him was when your father managed him, and then your father decided that was too much work and threw him out on the rest of us—”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles says, waving his free hand. He…doesn’t really regret getting David’s attention back on him, even if it comes with a warm smile that gets an actual growl from Peter, but sometimes he does see the appeal of brute force. Like it’d be very satisfying right now to just taser a certain uncle, and God, like the multiverse fuckery wasn’t thick enough tonight. “Family infighting, check, but we can do that whenever. First let’s talk about the three dead people back there.”

David sucks in his breath to object, thinks better of it, and puts on a reluctant face. “Very well, what happened?”

“You thought there were going to be more,” Scott says, frowning at him. “Stiles, when you said ‘three,’ he—”

“I can hear too and my heartbeat didn’t skip,” David says in a bored tone.

Scott and Stiles and Peter look at him. Then Scott shakes his head. “I keep forgetting this,” he says, with a rueful smile that makes David give him a skeptical look. “Other people don’t know.”

“You obviously want me to toss in the follow-up question,” David sighs.

“They don’t know that we once spent a week obsessively testing out all the physiological indicators for a lying werewolf,” Stiles says. Then shrugs off the look David gives him. “We were trapped in a very small space with an apocalypse outside and nobody packed the entertainment center. Things you forget when you’re in a hurry, right?”

David looks a little confused, then catches himself. He raises his hand to say something dramatic and Scott shoots him with a tranq dart.

“I,” Peter says, blinking, as David grabs the dart, yanks it from his neck, and then collapse with an insulted look on his face. He lifts one hand and rubs at the side of his face. “You—”

“Sorry, I know he’s your uncle, but this is dragging on and we really should get back,” Scott says. His shoulders tense a little and Stiles looks more closely at him, but he’s already bending over to grab David’s wrists. “I got the last body wrapped, so we just need to move those and then we can head for the house and see how she’s doing.”

Peter blinks again, then makes a face and goes over to help Scott with David’s legs. When he sees how Stiles is looking at him, he makes an even more adorably grumpy face and Stiles mentally reminds himself, multiverse shenanigans, dead people, obnoxious Hale. All things which are slightly more important right now than mussing up Peter’s hair, annoyingly enough.

“Of course I wanted to do that myself, but I also don’t want to stand out here waiting to see what disaster he’s brought with him this time,” Peter mutters, as he and Scott start off towards the car. “Stop looking at me like that, I can prioritize just fine.”

“I know, and you go prioritize, there,” Stiles says, grinning.

It’s dark but Peter is totally blushing. And Stiles completely, unashamedly watches that till he can’t and…then he’s still got shenanigans and corpses. He sighs and texts Lydia.

* * *

On the one hand, Chris is relieved—and guilty about that, but relieved all the same—that the little girl has finally let go of him. On the other hand, he can’t understand what he’s supposed to do in return for that.

“I don’t follow,” he says to Lydia. “What the hell does Stiles mean when he says ‘incoming sleazy genes’?”

Lydia looks at him for a few seconds. Then she sighs and turns from him. “I suppose it was too much to hope that Scott would give you _all_ the backstory.”

“Scott tells me whatever I want to know,” Chris says, irked. “I just never have seen a reason to ask about sleazy genes, because I don’t know why—”

“Yes, yes, just mind the children, and when the boys show up, remember it’s not your family,” Lydia says, checking her phone.

Chris carefully shuts his mouth, because it’s not doing him any good if he grinds his own teeth into cracking. Both Lydia and Stiles are important to Scott—and to be fair, they’ve been almost pointedly free of judgment about what Scott is doing with Chris—so he’s tried to just accommodate their respective attitudes. Usually Stiles is the harder one to deal with, if only because he’s the more reckless of the two, but Lydia can get under people’s skin like nobody’s business.

“Are they headed back?” Chris asks.

“Yes, but they’ll be busy, so don’t expect to be picking up Scott and going to your place any time soon,” Lydia mutters, texting.

“I wasn’t,” Chris snaps. 

She doesn’t even look up, and Chris has to take a bit of a breath to keep himself calm. He’s been around her to know it’s not even personal. She acts like this with Stiles and Scott, who both know her well enough that they can somehow figure out what’s really bothering her based on the degree of patronization, and even Talia, despite the two of them being in some kind of relationship.

But it’s still irritating as hell, and Chris doesn’t get whatever offsetting benefits Lydia provides that let Talia put up with it. “Look, is that why you came up?” he says. “Did they find something? Do they need help? And don’t say it’s not my family, all right, it’s still Scott and my pack. Don’t say it gets trickier than that either, because Jesus, did the last ten-something months not happen?”

Lydia sighs again, finally lifting her head. “Would you calm down?” she says. “First of all, you’re going to upset the—”

“Would you just tell me what’s going on?” Chris snaps. While dropping his voice and taking a quick look over his shoulder at the bedroom behind him, because that’s how many babysitting shifts he’s pulled. “The more you stall, the worse I’m thinking it is. What, did they catch somebody?”

She’s not going to tell him jack shit, that’s the expression he’s thinking she’s wearing right then. Chin slightly lifted, giving the impression she’s looking down on him even though she’s a fair bit shorter—even in heels—cool eyes, tightly pursed mouth. 

“The girl you found,” she says. “Her name’s Erica.”

Chris blinks. He still—part of him immediately calls that a stall, and is annoyed with Lydia for it, but the rest of him…doesn’t know what to do with that. “You…they found ID?”

“A birth certificate,” Lydia says. Actually, she almost spits that out, suddenly frustrated, and then she lifts her hand and presses it to the side of her face. “We all knew her, _a_ her, back in our original timeline. So when Scott comes in, he’s going to be a little worked up, and you need to not—”

“Okay, just—just say that, would you?” Chris says. He’s still frustrated himself, and now he’s both confused and nervous, a sense that they’ve just stumbled into one of the things that give Scott nightmares creeping over him. “He’s going to be upset? About the girl? Do we need to move her so he doesn’t—”

“Absolutely _not_ , you keep her right here till he sees her,” Lydia says. She yanks down her hand and glowers at Chris, as if he has the slightest context for why that’s a bad idea, and then abruptly stalks off. “I don’t have time to give you the backstory, I have this plus three bodies plus their damn _uncle_ , as if Stiles doesn’t quote that stupid movie about groundhogs enough…”

“Wait, what? Their uncle? The one coming tomorrow?” Chris says, starting after her.

“Chris?” says a voice just in front of him.

He jerks back just in time to avoid stomping over Derek, who looks solemnly up at him like Chris’ knee didn’t almost break his nose. Chris bites down on a curse, then exhales sharply, reaching out to move Derek aside. Which is when Laura kicks in the back of Chris’ knee.

“Get back here, she’s upset!” Laura demands, glaring up at him with her hands on her hips. She kicks him again, as he’s turning towards her, and then runs back into the room.

“She wants you,” Derek seconds with a nod. “Laura and I were trying to play with her but I don’t think she wants to be away from you. She threw the bear away.”

“What?” Chris grunts. He hop-twists around, holding onto his knee, and is just in time to see Laura climb back up onto the bed next to—to Erica.

Erica isn’t making any noises, but he can hear her heartbeat speed up and then he sees her curl in her legs, away from Laura. Chris instinctively takes a step into the room and Laura looks up, then waves impatiently for him to come over. She also scoots back from Erica, but Erica still keeps her legs pulled up.

“Come on,” Derek says, coming up and giving Chris a push on the leg.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m…okay, fine, I’m coming,” Chris mutters.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to help the poor girl, but he just—he’s not good at this. He does his best and he’s got Scott to watch to learn how to do it right, but it just doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s gotten used to working with Cora, but it’s not like he feels comfortable when he’s holding her, or helping to feed her or change a diaper. He always feels like he’s got to watch everything he does to make sure he does it right.

But…well, he’s not going to leave, at least till he can talk to Scott. So he braces himself and edges over to the bed to see what’s the matter. Erica seems all right to him: he and Talia got her fed and washed off before Deaton came back with the formula and Talia went down to make up a batch, so she looks much better. Anybody can tell she’s too thin and too small, but her hair’s turned out to be a bright blonde and she’s got a good color to her cheeks, so he figures a few good feedings and she’ll bulk up.

Which means Chris must be missing something. He stands over her and racks his brain for what else he should be looking for, only to start when Erica suddenly lifts her arms towards him. He stares at her and she opens and shuts her tiny hands. They’re so small that he thinks she might have trouble holding onto one of Cora’s bottles.

“Pick her up, are you stupid?” Laura says.

Chris looks at her and Derek pushes the backs of his legs. He stumbles and catches himself against the bed, then snatches his hand up. He didn’t come anywhere near Erica but he still scours Erica up and down for damage. Erica is still lifting her hands, and her face is starting to screw up in that expression Chris knows comes right before a good loud scream.

He picks her up before he quite knows what he’s doing. Doesn’t exactly work out the angle, her hand bats at his ear, and when he adjusts and settles her lower against him, her fingers flutter against his throat and shoulder, then curl into his shirt-collar.

“See?” Laura says, as Erica starts up a tiny, rattling noise.

It takes a second, but Chris comes to understand that Erica is doing her best to purr. He purrs back, thinking that she sounds like her throat’s dried out, and then he makes a face at himself and steps back from the bed and takes her into the bathroom.

The other two kids rush after them. Laura bombards Chris with questions, but stops when he uses his free hand to turn on the tap. She disappears back into the bathroom but Derek stays and watches as Chris dips a finger into the running water and then wipes it across Erica’s mouth.

“Can she talk?” Derek suddenly asks, looking worried. “She doesn’t say anything. Even Cora says stuff. You don’t know what it means but she says stuff.”

“She doesn’t have to say anything if she doesn’t want to,” Chris says, glancing at him.

Which means Chris misses the exact moment when Erica decides to instead mouth his finger. He’s so startled that he bounces her, so she bites him. “Goddamn it.”

“Bad word,” Derek says automatically. He at least also seems concerned about the fact that it takes a couple seconds for Chris to tug his finger away from Erica. “Is she drinking your blood?”

“I think she’s just thirsty,” Chris mutters. He’s already healed up but he gives his finger a quick rinse. “And nervous. But she’s been through a lot, can’t really blame her…even if this shirt has more holes than cheesecloth now…”

Then again, she didn’t claw him with the bite, so maybe that’s improving. Chris looks around for a towel, then has a thought and pulls one of the body-size towels from the rod. He dries off his hand, then bundles Erica up in the towel, trying to cover up her hands and feet. She seems…okay with that, mostly—she does pop out one hand as he turns towards the door. Which he leaves since he doesn’t want her to start feeling trapped.

“It’ll be okay,” Derek tells him. “I used to lick up blood too, ‘cause it was salty, but I outgrew it.”

“You should use a sippy cup anyway,” Laura says, coming back. With a sippy cup she’s found somewhere in the room. “But Mom says we shouldn’t drink the bathroom water, she says we should get it from the kitchen.”

Chris tries not to curse, or let that stab of panic get too far, and reminds himself that werewolf healing works on most types of poisoning too, including heavy metals. And that Lydia did say Scott was coming and maybe Scott will be busy with whatever else is happening, but at least he’ll be around to answer questions, and keep an eye on what Chris is doing. “Thanks,” he says, taking the cup.

It’s got a dust bunny trailing off the side, and lots of carpet fuzz around the lip. Laura looks at it and makes a face. “I think Cora lost that one two weeks ago,” she says.

“Okay, well, the formula might be ready now anyway,” Chris mutters, half to her, half to himself. “I hope. Either of you want to go check with your mom?”

Laura and Derek both volunteer, with their arms waving, and then they decide to race each other to the kitchen. Chris starts after them, but he’s just gotten to the bedroom door when Erica makes an odd noise. He looks down to check on her, then looks up as Talia’s voice drifts up from the kitchen, telling her children to calm down.

So Chris looks back at Erica, and she makes that noise again. It sounds like a hiccup and he starts tugging the towel down her back so he can pat her. Then he stops as she makes the sound a third time, clearly on the exhale, and…she’s purring again, it just sounds…maybe a little better. Maybe.

“Think I’m gonna sit down,” Chris says under his breath. He goes back to the bed and sits on the edge, then goes ahead and pulls himself into the middle. “At least I won’t drop you. Jesus, I don’t know what I’m doing, but Scott would never forgive me if I…”

Scott knows her. Knew her. Knew a her. Chris abruptly recalls what Lydia had said and finds himself holding Erica out a little bit, looking at her more closely. He thinks that’d mean she would have grown up and he tries to imagine what she would look like, if she were Scott’s age.

Erica stares back at him. To be honest, Chris has a hard time looking at Cora for long because she can do the same stare, like she sees things he doesn’t because she’s still so young and nobody’s gotten to her yet, taught her to be blind. He’s about to drop his gaze and then Erica reaches out with both hands—she must’ve gotten the other free when he pushed down the towel—and puts her palms on either side of Chris’ jaw.

“Uh,” Chris says. “Erica?”

She tilts her head. Her hands pull at Chris’ jaw, and then she smacks him with one hand. He grimaces and shifts up against the headboard, which moves his head nearer to her and that’s what she wanted, apparently, because she squeezes his jaw between her hands. He stops and she starts…patting all over his cheeks. She makes a weird little noise, then pats, and he suddenly realizes she’s feeling up his stubble because he and Scott were late for patrol, thanks to an impromptu blowjob in the shower, and he left his shave for the morning.

“Okay,” Chris mumbles as she pokes at his chin. “Okay, well, just…let’s stop clawing me, all right?”

Erica suddenly pulls back. She stares at him again, only it’s alarmed for some reason, and then she yanks her arms into the towel folds and scrunches down and presses into his chest. Chris tightens his grip on her out of reflex, then makes himself loosen up. He searches for what he’s supposed to do and finally just purrs because he can’t think of anything else.

She doesn’t look back up, but her heartbeat slows down. He stops purring to take a breath and that starts to go back up, so he…guesses he’d just better keep purring. Erica makes a couple attempts to purr back, then seems to get too tired for that and just puts her head against him. She’s so light, Chris thinks absently, sagging against the pillows.

He puts his head back and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, then looks down at her again, only to find that she’s closed her eyes. Her heartbeat’s not slow enough for actual sleep but she’s…she’s relaxed, anyway. And gradually, as she just keeps on doing nothing but lying on him, Chris starts to relax too. He still isn’t sure about what he’s doing, but…but for not knowing, this doesn’t feel too terrible. He thinks he just might be able to keep this up till Scott gets back.

* * *

David Hale has the family look, all right, but Lydia doesn’t actually see that much resemblance otherwise. When he wakes up, the first thing he does is feel over his face, particularly his nose. The second thing he does is sit up and find Talia and look annoyed. “I honestly thought you liked me,” he says.

“I liked how you annoyed Dad,” Talia says. She stands well back, squarely between David and the basement stairway.

There are two other exits from the basement, obviously, but Scott and Lydia have one covered and Stiles is standing in front of the other, with Peter behind him. Peter loops his arms over Stiles’ shoulders, clasping his hands against Stiles’ chest, and gives his uncle a cheerful smile. “Your reunion dates were always fun, too,” he says, showing too many teeth, even for a hostile greeting. “It’s just they did usually end up wrecking at least one room.”

“Well, if my dearly-departed sister-in-law hadn’t made an art form out of publicly analyzing their flaws, maybe they wouldn’t have always hit the liquor cabinet that hard,” David mutters. He flexes his limbs, then carefully gets to his feet. He’s taking a quick look at the rest of them while he does that, and when he’s completely up, he settles on Lydia. “She would have had a field day with a non-shifter. Not that I agree, I’m simply pointing that out. Personally, I do see the benefits in having advance notice of your potential demise.”

Then again, Lydia thinks as David smiles at her, she might see the resemblance. “How do you know them?” she says.

David raises his brows. “What, my niece and nephew? Well, I was in town for Talia’s birth, and I think I actually happened to be in the next room when Peter was conceived—”

Peter makes a face. Stiles senses that, of course, and tilts his head to bump it against Peter’s and David’s eyes almost twitch that way, Lydia notes.

“You’re an asshole, David,” Talia says dryly. “And you know what she means. I’d prefer to reconcile the family, which is why I agreed to let you come down in person to talk, but Peter’s already had to kill Carlo. It’s not like we don’t _expect_ the worst.”

David pauses. “So that really was true.”

“What, that _I_ got him?” Peter says. He’s a little loud, and jerking his chin a little belligerently.

Talia notices and she doesn’t quite hide the flicker of worry that goes over her face. Which leaves Lydia to step up, catching David’s eye. He also doesn’t quite hide his concern, but he puts on a charming enough smile as she keeps walking across the room, till they’re less than an arm’s length apart.

“Did you send those hunters?” Lydia says.

“I’m not Carlo,” David snorts. “If I have a problem with another werewolf, I don’t—”

“So you know another werewolf was involved,” Stiles says. “You also think three isn’t the right number for bodies.”

“You _also_ seem to think that we’re Mom and Dad,” Peter says. He lets go of Stiles and comes up beside the other man instead, apparently so he doesn’t have to dodge Stiles’ head to glower at his uncle. “Stop trying to distract us and tell us what you did and then Talia can decide whether to bury you or just maim you a little.”

David gives Peter a cool look, which puts a little stiffness in Talia’s back—Talia has improved as a negotiator, in Lydia’s opinion, but her brother still is her worst tell—and then laughs and steps back to lean against the wall. He digs into her pocket, glancing at Lydia to see if she’ll stop him, and when she does, he pulls out a pack of tissues, which he uses to start wiping some of the dirt off his face and clothes.

“Talia, dear, I think keeping up better relations with your siblings is a step in the right direction, but if you’re going to deal with the rest of _us_ , you should have a think about what family means,” David says, tone off-hand, eyes periodically moving to check all of them in turn. “You might not like me, but Teresa does, and she carries weight with the extended family.”

“I never understood that about Aunt Teresa, to be honest,” Talia says after a long second, during which Peter starts to say something, then thinks the better of it and just grabs Stiles’ hand instead. “She’s pretty reasonable, and she was never much for trouble-making.”

“True, but she’s also married to a were-coyote, and I did show up for the wedding, unlike your purist bigot of a father,” David says. He dabs off some dirt from his chin, then smirks at her. “And stood as godparent for her twins. So there you go.”

Talia presses her lips together. Lydia can tell that neither she nor Peter knew that—though she can also tell David’s disappointed at not getting more of a reaction. “I’m starting to think it’s that you don’t like us,” Talia finally says.

“Well, no, I thought you were all right. Not that I saw you enough to have much to go on. I had to see your _parents_ to see you, and honestly, at the time, I didn’t think it was worth it.” David shrugs, watching Talia now. When she remains calm, he lifts his brows and considers her more soberly. Then he suddenly looks at Lydia. “You’re not torturing me so Erica must be all right.”

“Sorry, are you asking something there?” Stiles says.

“She’s fine,” Scott says tightly, at the same time.

Lydia sighs loudly over both of them. “And Erica is…”

“She’s the daughter of Anna Reyes y Blanco, your dead werewolf,” David says. His voice is a little edged and when he pauses this time, Lydia thinks it’s to collect himself. “And I’m not the father, let’s just get that out of the way. We met when Erica was already six months old.”

Talia and Peter both keep eyeing David, registering the information, but neither of them look as if it’s particularly revealing, or consequential. The name does ring a bell, a member of a pack from the southern end of the state, but the pack isn’t one that figures much in regional politics and the woman must be fairly low-ranking if it’s only ringing a bell for Lydia.

“Well, do you have anything to do with Erica?” Talia finally asks.

For the first time David looks a little guilty. “Honestly, I’ve never met her. Anna didn’t like to show her around.”

“Didn’t think you were going to be a good influence?” Peter says.

He lilts the suggestion, with a needling smile, and David shrugs off that guilt with a knowing smile right back. Lydia catches Stiles looking between the two of them and twitching his fingers like he’s dying to gesture about the multiverse’s sense of humor again, and stares at him till he ducks his head. Which also has the hopefully helpful effect of making him notice that Peter’s stopped being snarky and started being cranky again.

“I think she thought the less people who knew about the baby she had with a hunter, the better,” David’s drawled in the meantime. He’s also backtracked, pausing dramatically as he takes in their reactions. “It was a forbidden love situation, from what I understand. Her lover’s family caught up with him, and I suppose they finally managed to find her, too.”

“But then why wasn’t her pack around?” Scott asks.

David levels a contemptuous, disbelieving look at Scott, then turns to Talia. “So he’s the true alpha. I see that status doesn’t automatically give you the wisdom of the ages.”

“He’s still an alpha, and he’s earned a bedroom in this house,” Talia says. She smooths the hair back from her face, then looks back up at David. “Get to the point, would you? Where do you come in?”

“I come in because Anna needed an exit, because her alpha decided it wasn’t worth risking the whole pack over one bungled love affair—” David throws a gratuitous pointed look at Scott “—and not that any of you will ever know now, but she was actually quite a good sport. Very willing to take things to the next level, to try the unconventional. Rare thing with werewolves.”

Talia sucks in her breath, obviously near the end of her patience, but whatever she’d been about to say is overridden when Peter snaps his fingers. “You hired her,” he says. “You were going to bring her and her daughter as a _date_ , right? You were worried Talia wouldn’t buy what you were selling so you were going to set yourself up as a committed family man.”

Peter’s both delighted at connecting the dots and…Lydia wouldn’t say appalled, but there’s surprise too, and she’ll never say it but she agrees with Stiles that this version is sometimes eerily different. It’s certainly something that older versions wouldn’t have batted an eye at, and under other circumstances this Peter could get there. But it’s just so plain that up till this moment, the idea hasn’t even occurred to him.

It obviously hasn’t to Talia, either, but she looks significantly less shocked than Peter once it’s been put in front of her. “Uncle David, honestly?” she says. She’s so annoyed she clearly hasn’t noticed she’s slipped back to the family address. “And how long was that going to last? Were you going to what, just bring them back every reunion?”

“Well, seeing as your parents only held those every other year, I think that that’s plenty of time to come up with a break-up story,” David mutters. He lifts his hand and gives the side of his face a quick rub, betraying a trace of fatigue. “Talia, would you just look at it from our point of view for a second? Your parents tell us all you’re gone and we’re not to even breathe your name, and then they die and we hear you’re not only back, you’re back with _three_ children and taking up the alpha post, and the first thing you do is kill Carlo and Gerard Argent. Honestly, the only reason _I_ didn’t think it was an imposter was because Peter was still around, and adding in his clever little notes to your newsletters.”

“So, actually, he had three and I had two and Lydia had one,” Stiles says.

Lydia glares at him because Talia’s busy staring expressionlessly at David. Stiles winces and bobs his head apologetically and then grins when Peter leans into him, though that turns a little puzzled as Peter continues the pressure till Stiles has to shake loose their hands and grab Peter around the waist to keep from being pushed off his feet.

David’s ignoring the byplay, completely focused on Talia. “And even if it was really you, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to take a few extra precautions. You obviously weren’t the Talia who left.”

“No. Although I don’t think before or after, I like much that you were using a packless woman and her toddler as a shield,” Talia says.

“It was a deal, not blackmail,” David says sharply, with surprisingly heartfelt irritation. “Anna had the full facts of the situation up here and she did weigh things up herself. If it ended up you were the second coming of your father, you’d at least give her and Erica sanctuary from the hunters.”

“And if she wasn’t?” Lydia asks.

David blinks as if he’d forgotten she was there, although she’s standing the nearest to him. He sizes her up for the barest second and then smiles as if he’s delighted she asked. “Well, then the rest of the family would have more than ample reason to intervene, if my niece was going to throw a toddler to the hunters. And in that case, there’s no point in our _not_ taking Anna and her daughter in. So either way, Erica has pack protection.”

“Clever,” Lydia says. She steps back, folding her arms across her chest, and then looks back up at him. “I mean that in the objective sense. Subjectively—”

“I still don’t like it, and I’m not that fond of you either,” Talia breaks in. “You’re right, I’ve changed. I’m too old to be entertaining stupid ideas just because I want to get back at my parents. And I have three kids of my own now, so I can’t see how Anna would have just risked her child for some stranger’s scheming—”

“I never said we were strangers, I just said that I hadn’t met her daughter,” David says, both needling and defensive. Then he stops himself, grimacing. He takes a moment to push down whatever he’d been about to say, and starts again in a very careful tone. “Fine, we weren’t best friends, but she felt comfortable enough to consider an offer from me. And I did want to help her. Did I also want to help me? Yes, but the point is, she’s dead and her child doesn’t have anyone except a bunch of homicidal hunters after her, and you’re certainly not going to leave her with _me_ , are you?”

“No,” Talia says after a moment. She shifts over as Lydia backs up to where she is, then steps forward so she’s the one confronting David. “But that does beg the question of what to do with you now.”

David sighs. It’s mostly exasperated, though there’s a brittle, nervous edge to it, and to the way his gaze fixes on Talia. “Yes, well, I suppose there’s the way you dealt with Carlo. Though now I’m your _only_ uncle—”

“And our only aunt likes you better than us, we remember,” Peter mutters.

“Excellent at playing secretary, as always, Peter,” David mutters back, just before he takes a deep breath and turns almost earnest on Talia. “I’m also not _interested_ in being alpha. Which you know because if I _was_ , I would’ve sent Carlo out in a much more sensible way than partnering up with Gerard Argent, of all people.”

As grating as Lydia finds the man, she can’t disagree with him. Anyone with a half-decent mind could see that owing their rise to power to a hunter wouldn’t rally the pack around them, and even the benefits of getting rid of a loose cannon relative would be outweighed by the danger of a hunter gaining inside knowledge. And when she looks at Talia and Peter, she can tell from their faces that they’re coming to the same conclusions. Talia’s reluctant to credit it, pressing her lips together and narrowing her eyes, but she ultimately gives her uncle a tight nod.

“But what do you want, then?” Peter breaks in. He’s a little pushy about it, both with his tone and how he’s balancing on his toes like he’d like to lunge at David for any hesitation. And when Stiles tries to give his hand a covert tug back, he gives that away by starting.

David’s brows inch up, but he seems to be tiring of the games, because that’s his only sign of evasiveness. “Not that much. A chance to actually _be_ family again—and by that, I mean family, not braindead lackeys. I won’t play dumb and pretend your father banned me for no cause whatsoever, but he offered a fair amount of cause himself, and I doubt that you’ve heard the whole story. I’ll acknowledge you as alpha, but in return I want you to understand that we’ve things to say, too, and that sometimes you’d be better off hearing us out.”

“That seems reasonable,” Talia says. She unfolds her arms and swings them back as if to step away, but just as David’s relaxing, she looks up again. “Too reasonable, and I don’t think I’m only relying on Dad’s word for that.”

“Really, Talia,” David says, tone slightly wounded. He glances at the dirty tissues crumpled in his hand, then carefully stuffs them back into their plastic pack and puts that in his pocket. “That is it—well, for now. But don’t look so suspicious, all right? I’m just recognizing that we’re both not in a position to settle too much right now, and there’s no point in messing this up by overreaching.”

“Well,” Talia mutters. She glances at Peter, who’s rolling his eyes but who under that looks uncertain about where to go next, and then at Lydia.

Before Lydia can say or signal anything, David snorts. “I promise that to the best of my knowledge, I don’t know of anyone who’s after me right now. Except for Anna’s ex-lover’s family, though if she got two of them—”

“We can deal with that,” Lydia says to Talia, who nods.

“Oh, wonderful,” David says, with just a little too much enthusiasm. When Talia shoots him a look, the pleasant smile he gives her in return only makes her look irritable. “Then there’s just the small matter of—”

“Always gotta be a postscript,” Stiles snorts, as Peter gives him an appreciative shoulder-bump.

“Anna’s burial,” David says. He pauses to let Talia and Peter be surprised, but the sharpness in his voice is real, even if it’s showy. “I did invite her here, after all, and her pack’s not going to take back her body. I’ll handle it, if you’ll just let me borrow a few tools and have a couple hours in the woods. I need to pay respects to your parents anyway.”

Talia presses her lips together, then nods once. She steps back and David takes a quick step forward, then a second, slower step, as she doesn’t immediately move to let him go to the stairs. “We have her body in the back shed if you’d like to sit with her tonight,” Talia says after a moment. “I don’t think anyone should head out to the preserve till we’re sure we’re clear of hunters, so it may be a day or so.”

David blinks, surprised, and then smiles. “Reasonable. I didn’t have a chance to check into my hotel yet, but when I have the room number, I’ll—”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Talia says. She finally turns, giving her shoulder to David as she moves towards the staircase. “You’re family, we’ve got a guest room ready for you. I’m just going to go check on the kids, so Peter, can you show David to it? And find out where he left his things? Stiles or Deaton can grab them when they go out again.”

“I suppose I won’t have to warn a magic-worker like yourself about careful handling,” David’s purring at Stiles as Lydia follows Talia up.

Lydia doesn’t pay any attention to what the response is, but she does note that it’s from Peter and she lets out a sigh just as Talia, now on the first floor, twists around with an exasperated look on her face. The two of them share that look and then Lydia pointedly moves into the doorway. “Trust me, Stiles is fully aware of the issue there and he’ll be diplomatic about it.”

“He only bothers being diplomatic when it’s related to something that you people think you screwed up before,” Talia mutters, though she does step away from the basement door. She glances over her shoulder as she moves towards the other staircase. “And you said this Erica…”

“Not that Stiles needs me to run interference, but I should point out he’s also diplomatic about upsetting Peter,” Lydia says.

She doesn’t say anything else till they reach the second floor. She knows that Talia’s watching her, and that at this point, silence is as good as a confession for the other woman, but she…needs a few minutes. Just to collect herself, not to think about stalling or lying. There’s really no point in either, seeing as this Erica’s so much younger than any other ones Lydia has known that frankly, none of those prior experiences can be remotely relevant here.

“As I said, I didn’t know her, and the later Ericas, none of them were my style,” Lydia finally says.

Talia is still watching her, but on the sly. The other woman does let out a soft hum, but she’s walking into the kids’ bedroom at the same time and she could just as well be calling out to her children. Who, as it turns out, are all asleep: Cora in her playpen, while Derek and Laura have sprawled out on the floor around that, curled up with their stuffed wolf and hare, respectively. Derek does wake up enough to make a sleepy noise, snuggling into his mother’s shoulder as she picks up him and Laura, but other than that they snooze away.

Chris is still there, tilted over from where he must have been leaning against the headboard. Erica’s hair is peeping out from his arm, but when Talia bends over the pair of them, it suddenly retracts. Talia pauses and Chris—who is apparently so worn out it’s overcome his usual nervy doze—grunts and shifts slightly to tighten up around Erica. From where Lydia’s standing, she’s not entirely sure how the girl is breathing, but Talia cocks her head, then backs up, so Erica must be fine. 

“I will need to give Anna’s alpha a courtesy call, but if I wait till the morning, that should be fine,” Talia says. She lets Lydia open the adjoining door to their bedroom and tucks Derek and Laura into her bed—Lydia also takes Cora in—and then returns with Lydia to the hall. “Any later and it does start to look a little rude, if not suspicious.”

“Morning should be fine. Stiles and I will have something from our sources by then, and Scott probably will want to sweep the whole preserve himself. When Chris is up again, I’ll sit him down with Deaton and figure out something with the hunters.” Lydia starts down the stairs, then takes a deep breath. “I might not have ever known her well, but she’s someone I did know. A version—that her knew me before all of this.”

Talia comes up beside Lydia on the staircase. She pauses, then goes down slightly ahead of Lydia. She doesn’t reach for Lydia’s hand but their shoulders keep brushing together, just enough so that Lydia can’t ignore it, but can’t quite call the other woman out for it either. And if Lydia moved out of the way, she’d have to contort herself at an awkward, obvious angle. Sometimes Talia’s too observant for her own good, Lydia thinks irritably.

“I was starting to forget how much the children changed things, but David reminds me of all the stupid things I used to think weren’t important, or that I could ignore,” Talia says suddenly. “He’s good at that—one reason why my father was wrong to break with him, I think.”

“Well, I’m sure he knows that without your admitting it,” Lydia says. 

Talia laughs quietly, then suddenly reaches out and touches the hair just above Lydia’s ear. They’re nearly to the kitchen and Lydia stops just short of the turn and looks at the other woman. She sees Talia looking sympathetic and curious, and not about to push, and it’s just so aggravating, Lydia thinks, right before she steps up and curls her hand around Talia’s jaw and pulls the woman down for a kiss.

“It’s still strange, and sometimes I think I hate how strange it is,” Lydia mutters, stepping back. “I should be used to this.”

“You should be pumping my uncle for blackmail on Peter and me, while you’re busy persuading him to talk himself into his own grave,” Talia says playfully. Her fingers feather into Lydia’s hair before they drop away. “Speaking of, we might as well settle now how we’re going to handle him and Anna’s alpha when it comes to Erica. Coffee?”

“Obviously,” Lydia says. She settles at the kitchen island and watches Talia start up the coffeemaker for a few seconds. Then she gives herself a shake, takes out her phone, and goes about dragging up everything she knows about werewolf adoptions.

* * *

Peter’s uncle is the worst.

“It’s not even the terrible lines,” Stiles mutters as he checks in with Scott, who’s coming back from a quick sweep of the town’s eastern edge. “It’s how he knows just enough to hide his stuff from being sniffed out, but _not_ enough to think about how a goddamn dumpster might, I don’t know, _get picked up_ once in a while? And hauled off to, say, the dump?”

“Oh,” Scott says, limiting himself to just some madly-twitching nostrils because he is a martyr to good manners like that. He looks Stiles and Deaton over, then gives Stiles a tentative pat on the shoulder. “Well, at least you got it before it hit the incinerator or the compactor or anything like that, right?”

“Worse than that.” Stiles pulls off his sneakers, breathes through his nose—without lifting the shoes past his waist—and then tosses them into the garbage can. That pair was about worn out anyway. “We got there right when the guy running the show was checking through his load for anything fun, and guess what, he’s enough in the know about the supernatural to demand a little compensation for his troubles.”

Deaton leaves off scrubbing at some damp patches around his trouser-cuffs and straightens up. He pauses to take a fresh wipe from Scott, then shakes his head and just takes the whole container of wipes. “We didn’t actually bribe him,” he elaborates for Scott’s benefit. “We, ah, warned him that hunters were probably on the trail of the owner, and he was more than happy to surrender the bag after that.”

“We’re gonna have to deal with him more than that, but first I’m getting a shower and second I’m gonna fill up the laundry machines so Uncle goddamn David has to wait his turn,” Stiles says, stripping off his shirt. He doesn’t even bother smelling that, just chucks it into the trash.

His jeans, on the other hand, he’s kind of fond of. Mostly because he had to buy this pair after he and Peter got a little too involved in checking the fit in the mall dressing room, though at least he knows they’ll wash really well. But right now, they really smell, and feel super-slimy at the cuffs, even though they weren’t actually wading in the garbage that long. When he’s got a moment he should go back and check that dump for magic.

“You know that’ll just make everything stink for that much longer,” Scott sighs. And, because he is a thoughtful, rational person whose ultimate goal is the least amount of suffering for the greatest number, he takes David’s luggage away from Stiles. “Did you check it already? I’m on my way out, but I can drop it off with David and let him know.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s clear, nothing more interesting than a couple vials of recreational wolfsbane,” Stiles says.

He and Scott go a couple steps into the kitchen and then they should part ways, but Stiles isn’t so mad that he’s a complete ass. He glances over his shoulder, checking that Deaton’s still in the garage, and then looks over the other man.

“I’m fine,” Scott says, catching on. Then he sighs and semi-turns his head away. “I mean, I think we have bigger priorities right now than whatever weird feelings I have about this. She just lost her mom, Stiles, and she probably saw it, and…”

“We are talking about this once I smell like a person again, and you’ve gotten your patrol paranoia out of your system,” Stiles says. “But just, y’know, it’s not like you have to personally take her in to make up for things. From the way that Talia and David were talking, werewolf society here has rules for this kind of deal.”

“I thought you said that you can count the number of werewolf rules that actually make any sense and still have a hand free for casting,” Scott says dryly. But then he sighs again, rubbing the side of his head. “No, I know, it’s like how one of us is going to be reminding Lydia that sometimes we miss things in research, and it actually doesn’t always end the world.”

“It’s just fucking weird,” Stiles agrees. He takes a half-step towards the door, then jiggles back to face Scott. Who’s just as edgy and honestly, a good long patrol is probably the best thing for Scott right now, but Stiles just—he reaches out and bumps Scott’s shoulder with his knuckles. “Well, you know, thing about her being a lot younger this time, we’ve got a lot more time to get rid of the nightmares. I bet she likes ice cream.”

Scott levels a look at him that’s trying for exasperation and mostly falling into tired affection. “Stiles, you can’t bribe kids out of trauma, and anyway, we all agreed on a quota for sweets, remember? I’m pretty sure Talia won’t raise it that much.”

“I know, no bribes, but nothing wrong with comfort, right?” Stiles says. “I’m just saying. I’m pretty sure I can whip up something about ice cream deprivation correlated to troubled childhoods, and outweighing nutritional whatever, and hey, Derek will do his little happy dance too. Winners all around.”

His friend just snorts at him. But Scott looks a little looser, and as he carries off David’s bags, he reaches out and gives Stiles’ arm a fist-bump back. He’s still probably going to have a week of nightmares, and Stiles makes a note to himself to mix up a few doses of shift-blocker to pass to Chris, but…well, honestly, if it’s just a week’s worth, that’s doing pretty well for them.

Anyway, it’s somewhere Stiles feels okay with leaving for now, so he goes on upstairs. He hears a muffled voice and pauses, but it sounds like Talia and Lydia tackling David again. Having an active target does for Lydia what long, grueling one-man patrols do for Scott, so Stiles feels completely justified in leaving the women to it and sneaking into Peter’s room.

Well. Okay. It’s basically his and Peter’s room. He technically has the next bedroom over, too, but they generally keep its hall door locked and just use the shared bathroom sandwiched between the two rooms to go back and forth. Stiles is actually musing on moving out “his” mattress so that he has more room for spell-working.

When he goes in, Peter’s not in the room, but through the bathroom, Stiles can see the light in the other room on. “Hey, your jerk uncle made us detour to the dump so I’m gonna shower off,” Stiles calls, stepping into the bathroom. “Once you’re done talking about how bad I need it, mind doing me a favor and finding the deodorizing bag for my jeans?”

Peter makes an assenting noise. From the sound of it, he’s poking around in Stiles’ bookcases. He does that a lot, but Stiles gets through a very long, thorough, multi-step cleaning routine, and Peter’s still in the other room, still not talking, even if he did get the bag for Stiles. Stiles gives himself a quick pat-down, slings a towel around his waist, and goes to check things out.

Though he’s barely in the room before he runs into Peter, who turns so that part of his shirt flicks against Stiles’ belly. Then sticks there, courtesy of Stiles still being kind of wet, and capillary action ends up pulling another inch of shirt onto Stiles’ skin. Peter looks down at what his clothes are doing, then makes a face. “Well, I think you got all of the _dump_ garbage,” he mutters. “But I still smell something.”

Stiles almost frowns. Almost says something about checking the expiration dates on the cleansers, because yeah, obviously he makes his own, he’s not about to entrust bloodstain removal to a commercial operation. And then he catches that little sniffy lilt in Peter’s voice and stops himself. Just…lets Peter lean in, all blatantly crooked neck and little sidelong flicks of the eyes and faintly disgusted expression.

Peter sniffs at Stiles’ collarbone again, then raises his head. “Ah, I think I know what it is,” he says. His shirt’s pretty much glued to Stiles from about mid-chest down now, and some of his pajama pants—he showered while Stiles is out, his curls are still that just-dry fluffy—are sticking to Stiles’ knees. “That’s the garbage of—”

“Somebody who dug out somebody’s uncle’s baggage from the local dump ‘cause they’re trying to be a good, supportive packmate, even if said somebody’s uncle is kind of a dick?” Stiles says.

“I was going to say—” Peter says, blinking sharply. Surprised, for some reason, a really fragile layer of that over a sudden but obviously, painfully cautious delight in his eyes. With a little stubborn set to his jaw that gets all jarred out when Stiles takes him by the hips and pulls them flush together. “—hey! You’re still wet! You’re getting _me_ wet!”

“Have you not been to a beach or swimming, honestly, it’s worse when you drag it out,” Stiles says. Not letting go, even though Peter’s squirming. Actually, he moves his hands around to cup under Peter’s buttocks and then does not hide his grin at Peter’s yelp. “Just get it over with, and then it’s better.”

“Not everybody lives according to the cliff-diver’s philosophy,” Peter grumbles. Though when he puts his hands up, they go on Stiles’ upper arms, and they’re gripping those. Not against Stiles’ chest, not trying to leverage his way out. “Also, interrupting.”

Stiles hums and lets his face drift towards Peter, till he can almost poke at Peter’s hair with the tip of his nose. “Right, sorry, what were you saying?”

“I think it was something about how my uncle’s not just _kind_ of a dick, and tends to permanently pollute the lives of people he dates,” Peter mutters. He’s starting to give in, Stiles can feel his body softening up where they’re pressing into each other, but then he breathes in sharply and his head goes up and he looks at Stiles with this odd, almost frantic look. “I just—I can smell it, he’s making you smell even if you’re not—”

“Uh, Pe—” Stiles starts.

By the time he would’ve gotten to the second syllable of Peter’s name, Peter’s dropped to his knees and has taken Stiles’ towel with him. And it’s a _would’ve_ because also, Peter has Stiles’ cock in one hand and his mouth. Just down there, bright blue eyes looking up and his fingers are curled a little awkwardly around the base, he’s trying to feed the cock into his mouth but he was in a hurry and he’s good, okay, good enough to make Stiles flail and then grab a bookcase and be really, amazingly damn glad that he thought to leave one of those there before he fell over and ended all of those.

But Peter’s not so great that he can just deep-throat up onto Stiles’ cock right off the bat, especially when he’s coming down to begin with. So he’s got Stiles’ cock in his hand and he’s sucking his way onto it, and staring up too, and Stiles can see how Peter fighting off a gag and how damn determined he is about that, determined and annoyed and that hits so much harder than any kind of pornstar-perfect move. Seriously, it’s just so—Peter’s trying, he’s trying and he even scoots forward on his knees once he gets to the halfway point, his other hand going to brace against Stiles’ knee. Then his arm comes up across Stiles’ thigh and he leans into it, more and more of Stiles’ cock disappearing past his stretched-out mouth.

His fingers and his very pink, very tight lips overlap for a second because it’s not perfect. His timing isn’t flawless, he doesn’t just go from hand to mouth, he’s got to fumble a little between the two and then he’s grabbing onto Stiles’ thighs with both hands like _he’s_ the one who needs the support. And he’s just so gorgeously imperfect, God, he doesn’t have it down, he’s still _getting_ it down, bobbing his head and slurping a little bit to get over the gagging and Stiles honest-to-God doesn’t think he could do it any better.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, Peter, your mouth, I’m, you’re gonna, I’m, fuck, Jesus fuck hell but I fucking _love_ ,” is about all Stiles can manage as a warning.

Then he’s hanging onto that bookcase like he’s going to dislocate his shoulder that way, watching as Peter manages one swallow, chokes a little, and then jerks back, a shine of come leaking over his already spit-sheened lower lip. Peter flushes and pulls off all the way, ducking his head like he’s going to try and hide it. Then he straightens his shoulders and looks up, and he’s got his hand halfway up to wipe off his mouth, which is all poised around some smart, defensive comment when Stiles just stoops and grabs him and gets him over onto the bed already. So maybe they don’t move that just yet.

“Wait a second, my face has, I’m,” Peter says, and then he’s muffling the rest as Stiles twists him over onto his belly. He makes disgruntled noises into the bed, then gets himself up on his elbows, craning around with an indignant look on his face. “I want to wip—”

“Yeah, okay, here,” Stiles says, tossing his towel up at Peter. And while Peter’s distracted, he pulls down Peter’s pajamas and presses apart those pretty pale buttocks and then noses in between them.

Breathes in as Peter hitches sharply but unevenly, making startled, shivery noises. It’s like Peter’s so shocked all his limbs want to go in different directions, and that pins him more firmly in place than anything Stiles could do. Frees up Stiles’ hands so he can concentrate on just pillowing Peter’s ass in them, rounding it in his palms and rubbing his thumbs over the delicious curves. Pushing them further apart, till his nose-tip ripples over the tight little folds of skin around Peter’s hole.

Peter gasps in a huge breath, pulling the blankets around them, and then, when Stiles takes a light lick at him, he lets all that air out in a long, needy whine. Stiles rubs his cheek against one buttock, half-suppressing a chuckle, and then just goes at him. No foreplay, not really—some people might think anything short of a dick in there’s foreplay, but that’s just being narrow-minded.

A tongue can get it done too, just as hard, and Stiles works Peter’s hole to prove it. Flat of his tongue every time, as much contact as he can get, and he lets the occasional tooth graze too. Not drawing blood, just catching a little over the buttocks as Peter whimpers and humps himself against the bed, pushing his ass up into Stiles’ cupped hands as Stiles rims him. Laves him, really, putting down one stroke after the other, as quick as possible, not giving Peter the time to fully press into the first before the second is snaking across him.

Peter’s chanting his name, chanting in a shaky, thick voice that keeps cracking. “Stiles, God, Stiles, please,” he’s saying, his thighs trembling as they sprawl further and further, till they’re flat against the bed. “Please, please.”

Stiles dips his tongue into Peter, feels and watches the shudder that gets, and then he worms Peter’s buttocks further apart and fucks in his tongue, as deep as he can go. He can smell the soap on Peter now, can recognize which mix of his Peter used, herbs and citrus stinging to life as the traces mix in with Peter’s sweat. And hey, he’s not the werewolf but when he presses his face in, smushes his nose into the very start of Peter’s cleft, right above the hole his tongue is stroking, and all he smells on Peter is what he _made_ —so he’s getting hard again.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter cries. And it is a cry, a little dragged-out broken thing, edges sharp enough to jog Stiles out of his primitive-urges haze. Peter’s quivering against the bed, struggling and failing to push himself up and he can’t even get his head around to look at Stiles so he’s just shaking it instead. “Stiles, I—please, _please_ please please I—I can’t—it’s too—too—”

His thighs are shivering, even though they feel like steel cables in Stiles’ hands. That tense, twitching is _painful_ , just feeling it Stiles can tell that, and Stiles grimaces and shakes his head and then slides his face up out of Peter’s buttocks. “Okay.”

Peter whines at him again, head dropping to burrow against the bed, showing a vulnerable nape. Stiles presses down on Peter’s hips, just hard enough so that Peter stops trembling, and then keeps pushing himself up over the other man. He drops a kiss on Peter’s back, at the lowest part of the dip, and has to hold Peter down again as Peter sobs a little.

“Okay, okay, hang on,” Stiles says, finally getting up where he can wrap over Peter. He spreads down over Peter’s back, letting sheer weight work for them. Waits for Peter’s breathing to steady a little, then works his arm around Peter’s waist and pulls them over onto their side.

They’ve worked far enough over so that Stiles can reach the bedside dresser, though he can’t do that for the first couple seconds because Peter’s bucking up the second his front comes off the bed. Stiles ends up slinging his leg over Peter’s legs to pin Peter in place, then mouths at the back of Peter’s neck as Peter whimpers and keeps moving his hips in tiny, frustrated jerks.

He gets the nearest jar of stuff that’ll work, leaves a huge dollop of salve on the dresser but whatever, he’ll get it later. Right now he’s got an unstrung, desperate werewolf to tend to.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter near-snarls, his eyes squeezed shut, as Stiles takes his cock in hand and then just clamps down on the base.

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Stiles pulls Peter’s cock up a little, then swings his leg off Peter and works his other hand between Peter’s legs. When Peter struggles again, Stiles bites his throat. “One second, okay? I got you.”

Peter drags out his whimper so much that Stiles isn’t entirely sure Peter heard him. But instincts trigger anyway and Peter stills himself, shivering with the effort, as Stiles positions two fingers at his hole. Stiles waits for Peter to draw himself up tight, then gives Peter’s cock a quick pump before squeezing the base again.

Arching, nearly yanking up half the blankets with him, Peter lets out a hoarse cry that seems to shake all his muscles loose. He’s still slumping when Stiles’ knuckles bump up against the rim of his hole; he starts sluggishly, then moans as his body catches up to things and clenches sharply around Stiles’ fingers.

“Hurts,” Peter manages to whine. “I can’t—”

He doesn’t mean the fingers, but the way his body keeps pulling in, not letting him ride out the shakes like he needs to. “You’re gonna,” Stiles says. He kisses the back of Peter’s neck, then breathes in slow and deep against the spot. “You’re gonna, Peter, you’ll feel so good, and you’re gonna just—”

Peter sucks in air, and Stiles sinks his teeth into Peter’s shoulder. Hard, and holding on there as his hand releases its grip on Peter’s cock, as his other hand rocks its fingertips forward inside of Peter and Peter drives himself up onto Stiles’ teeth, hanging for a bone-rattling second, before he collapses into his climax.

Stiles eases off the bite at that point, though he keeps on nursing the spot with his mouth through Peter’s aftershocks. He also keeps his one hand on Peter’s cock, just a loose circle of fingers, mostly to keep it where it won’t get accidentally pinched or rolled on, but once Peter’s just a limp little bundle of limbs, he eases his other hand out from behind Peter and just sets it on Peter’s hip, feeling the way the shivers fade.

“You’re hard,” Peter mumbles. “C’mon.”

His voice still isn’t much more than an uneven croak, but he’s already sounding a little persnickety. Stiles smiles into his nape and Peter moves his shoulders in an annoyed way, letting Stiles know he feels that smile.

“I think you need a second,” Stiles says. “I’m a grown-up, I don’t _have_ to be in your ass all the time. The outside of it’s pretty cushy, too.”

“You’re…you’re an ass,” Peter says, with a half-hearted sniff. 

Stiles noses along his hairline and Peter makes a soft, contented noise. Then a semi-protesting one as Stiles backs off, but he stops that when he realizes Stiles is just moving back far enough to strip him off his shirt, which is definitely going to need a wash now. He’s the one who snuggles back when Stiles lies down again, tugging Stiles’ arm by the wrist till it’s back around his waist.

“Yeah, well, for the record, I’m not an ass who’s into your uncle,” Stiles says. Peter’s ass moves against his erection and he takes a deep, deep breath. And then restrains himself to just a nip at Peter’s throat, just sharp enough to get a little shimmy and whimper from a soft-eyed, still faintly surprised Peter who’s tipping his head back to look at Stiles. “I mean, you wanna blow my brains out the wrong end so he’ll smell that all day, I’m okay with that. Totally okay with that. I’m not sure your sister’s gonna be okay with it, and the kids are gonna make faces at us, but—”

Peter stares up at him, annoyed at being found out and a little shocked too, as if it was at any point a hidden problem. And also, which is what ends up getting him the kiss Stiles drops on his temple, slowly but steadily thrilled about it, as if it was even a goddamn question.

“It’s just,” Peter mutters, because his pride’s starting to edge in too. “I know that look, and those jokes. He reminded you of—of something, and I bet it had something to do with me.”

“Well, okay, he does tend to prove certain theories of inheritance,” Stiles says. It’s a little awkward with his other arm down at Peter’s waist, but he keeps himself propped up so he can see Peter’s face. “But the look and the jokes are mostly a massive what-the-fuckery reaction, and are in no way, shape or form a sign of attraction. It’s just—this stuff just gets so _weird_ , Peter, and human brains just…even I overload after a certain point. But trust me, I don’t want to screw your uncle.”

“I don’t think he really wants to screw you either, he just wanted to get me and Talia off-balance,” Peter says after a second. He looks up at Stiles, still a little tentative, and then abruptly turns forward. When Stiles eases himself down, Peter snuggles back, but his hand is a little loose on Stiles’ wrist. “His type’s more the directly homicidal kind. You’re a little…subtle.”

“Sorry, just had another weird moment,” Stiles says. He mouths at Peter’s throat to make up for the pause, then leans his forehead into Peter’s hair. “So. Like I said. Whatever scent stuff, it’s cool, but I just want you to know, what he reminds me of is mostly how goddamn unlikeable the not-you Peters could be.”

“And you like me,” Peter says.

“Fishing like the most adorable were-fish ever, I see that, I hope you know,” Stiles says back. “Also, no, I love you.”

Peter glances over his shoulder at Stiles, all big, slightly over-bright eyes, then puts his head down and sighs comfortably. They lie together for a couple seconds, nice and peaceful, before he sidles his buttocks back into Stiles.

“Subtle, yeah,” Stiles says, moving his hand down to take Peter by the hip. “You know, there’s this thing where, if you pace it out, you don’t pull muscles and end up feeling like you’re a geriatric instead of just a time-traveler of indeterminate age—”

“Oh, just—it’s not just— _oh_.” Peter sounded like he might’ve changed his mind and wanted to get serious at the end there, but by then Stiles has his fingers halfway in and it’s just…it’s easier on both of them if Stiles finishes that off.

So he works them all the way in, lets Peter breathe and flex into them. Adds a third and repeats, because even without the horribly enabling fact of werewolf healing, Stiles would absolutely put forth best efforts to preserve the beautiful tightness of Peter’s ass. And then fights back a snort or two as Peter works up enough energy to get a hand down and get himself onto Stiles’ cock.

“Oh,” Peter says, a long, low, near-awed vowel that cuts all that inappropriate humor off at the knees anyway, leaving Stiles to just…appreciate the wonder who is curling up in front of him. Peter nudges his head back against Stiles’ jaw a few times, then purrs, pleased and satiated. “The—the scenting, it’s not—it’s not all him, just so you know. Doing it before he ever got here.”

“Hmmm?” Stiles says, sneaking in a kiss behind Peter’s ear.

“Scent,” Peter says. He’s fighting his purr a little to be coherent. “Smell, just—just—I want the smell if I can’t—you know usually bite each other, but—mates smell like each other. You know, right?”

“I…yeah, that was rattling in my head somewhere, at some point.” Which is true, it’s just not really a factoid Stiles has ever needed to put to work, what with Scott having the nose.

“My parents were like that. They were awful to everybody else but they _were_ mates,” Peter goes on, sounding a little sleepy. “We could always tell them apart, Talia and me, but other people, even family sometimes, they’d think they smelled the same. But takes longer than a bite, way longer, turns out.”

“So…this wouldn’t happen to be related to the whole napping on me thing, would it?” Stiles says after a long moment.

Peter goes still, and then he nods a little. He’s tense when Stiles kisses his neck, but relaxes while Stiles’ lips are on him. And then he jerks as Stiles bites him, but that’s a good noise he lets out, a little pleased whine.

“Okay, well, I gotta admit then that I’m actually kind of into getting to bite you over and over again,” Stiles says. He laps at Peter’s neck till he can’t feel the small indents from his teeth. “It’s like I get to mark you _every_ time, you know?”

Peter shivers against Stiles, then almost trills the purr, he’s so contented, as Stiles brings around both hands and wraps them over the front of his thighs. Slides them down slow, then back up at the same speed, gradually rocking Peter back onto his cock. He’s…starting to feel like he needs to take care of that, but he figures he can swallow that for a little longer and just enjoy this.

“Wait, I wanted—Erica, she’s important, isn’t she?” Peter says suddenly. “Or whatever she reminds you of?”

“She…doesn’t remind me. Well, she did, but it was just a second. I’m still getting used to this whole stay in one place thing,” Stiles says, a little slowly. Then he nuzzles Peter’s shoulder. “But I mean it, staying. Screwy uncles and all.”

“He’s not that screwy, you just have to stop being annoyed at him long enough to look at what he’s really doing,” Peter says. Half-reproachfully, and half of that half-reproach is not aimed at Stiles. But it’s also half-lofty, and then he wiggles his ass back into Stiles, like he hasn’t learned how that always makes Stiles bite down on whatever’s nearest.

Which is Peter’s shoulder. Peter gasps and then rocks back again, arching kittenishly as Stiles grabs his hips. Stiles has to stop biting his shoulder because there’s that lovely throat stretching up right to the side, and then Stiles is mouthing that and rolling Peter into the bed and never mind about any kind of uncle. They’ve got all the screwiness they need between the two of them.

* * *

Stiles has a whole beacon and magical alert system set up now, so to sweep the town for hunters, Scott doesn’t actually have to check the whole town. But there are enough areas where Stiles’ magic won’t work, or where getting it to work would attract too much attention, that by the time Scott walks into the kids’ bedroom to get Chris, he’s so exhausted he tries to pull Chris up before noticing the man is still asleep.

Or was. Chris blinks blearily when Scott hastily jerks back his hand, then stiffens, his eyes widening. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. He glances past Scott at the bedside clock, then starts to roll over onto his back. “Shit, shit, shit, I was—did you go out, you smell like—shit. Sh— _ow_.”

A little blood scent stings the air as Chris jerks still. Then he shifts forward again, back onto his side as the lump he’d had hidden under his arm whines and burrows into his chest. Chris looks at—at Erica, then up at Scott, shoulders twitching into an embarrassed cringe, hand going to cradle Erica’s back.

“It’s okay, don’t get up,” Scott says. “I checked everything already, I was just coming back to—”

Chris wants to curse again, and his shoulders even flex like he’s going to spit a few out, but his mouth clamps shut on the words and he just looks his mortification up at Scott. He twists a little as Scott leans over the bed, shifting his hand under Erica to hold her up as he offers the side of his throat. “Sorry, I just meant to stay till she went to sleep and then I…I don’t know, I just…”

“Drifted off too?” Scott says, amused. “You two looked comfortable, can’t really blame you.”

His beta drops his gaze and grunts noncommittally, obviously still castigating himself for ditching patrol, because that is how Chris sees it, no matter what Scott says. Scott debates saying something anyway, but then decides Chris is too worked up to listen and he’s too tired to say it right, and he doesn’t want to get into an argument in front of Erica.

So he just bends over, planning to tack on a quick affirming nip with the usual scenting—he’s not above a little instinct play, as Stiles calls it—but just as his cheek touches Chris’ neck, Chris winces away and a small, high noise peeps out from between them.

“Shit,” Chris mutters. He immediately pushes up again, trying to nuzzle Scott’s jaw and adjust Erica at the same time, but he’s a little too frantic and even before Erica squeaks again, Scott can smell her getting nervous. “Shit, I’m—”

“Hey, hey, okay, I shouldn’t crowd in anyway,” Scott says, shifting over. He puts one hand down on the bed, the other one on Chris’ shoulder. Pauses to kick out of his shoes, gauging how tense Chris is through his grip, and then he twists around so that he can slide onto the bed, facing the other man.

As he gets on, Chris pushes back to make room, rolling onto his elbow to sort of crab-drag himself aside. Erica makes another noise and Chris purrs at her, dragging his gaze from Scott, who can tell the exact second that Chris and she lock eyes. It’s how Chris’ expression goes from nervy to pure terror, and then, like a switch flipped, smooths out to a strange, quiet kind of wonder. Still has more than a little fear in it, but that’s receded enough that Scott can see how much Chris _likes_ that she’s looking back at him. How surprised he is by it, and how much he doesn’t understand it, and how…

How he’s still pretty much a young man. He’s watched his family be killed in front of him, and been hunted by them, and had to kill them, and despite all of that, when a little girl stares at him, he can’t help but look like that’s as amazing as a rainbow. Everyone says Scott’s the kids person and it’s true that he likes children, he likes playing with them and he’s certainly going to protect them with all he’s got, but he just doesn’t look like that anymore, at anything or anyone.

“Sorry about that,” Chris says. He looks a little bit curious as Scott starts, then shakes himself. Then he flushes again, his gaze sliding down to about level with Scott’s chin. “Sorry about leaving you out there anyway.”

“It’s okay, there wasn’t much to do. I think her mother got anyone in town, which gives us at least a couple days to plan the follow-up,” Scott says. His hip’s going a little numb from the way he’s leaning on it so he pulls both his legs onto the bed, then rolls so that he’s mostly on his belly, keeping himself up on one forearm. “Caught Lydia on the way up, she says she and Talia have David handled too, so I think that’s it for to—tonight…”

A yawn catches him. He tries to stifle it but Chris catches it, and looks guilty again. “Well, that’s good…I’ll get up and take morning shift to make up for it,” Chris says. “Think I’m all caught up on sleep now.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Scott says, glancing at Erica. She smells a little bit calmer but she’s still just…so quiet, he thinks. No Erica he’s met was ever this quiet, even the pre-bite outcasts. “She seems kind of attached to you.”

“I think it’s just you being an alpha,” Chris mutters. His flush had been dying down, but it flares up again. “She wasn’t that big on Talia either. Whenever her pack gets up here…or…”

Scott barely shakes his head before Chris is grimacing, as if it’s his fault for not knowing that. Then he gives Scott a sharp, kind of strange look, not just worried but also…there’s guilt in it and Scott really can’t see any reason for that, even with how seriously Chris takes pack duties.

“Lydia came up here,” Chris starts, a little stilted. He’s curling his fingers against Erica’s back too, tugging her closer to him, and Scott doesn’t think it’s conscious. “Said something about you all knew her before? Erica? I mean, another one of her.”

“Yeah, she—she was one who came up a lot,” Scott says after a second. “We were all classmates, way at the beginning. She…the first one I knew, she wasn’t a born were, she was bitten like me. Just a couple months after I got bitten, actually.”

Chris nods stiffly. His eyes drop like he’s going to look away, then snap to Scott’s face again and that guilt flickers through them and Scott suddenly realizes it’s because Chris doesn’t want to be as curious as he plainly is. “Were you pack?” Chris asks.

“Not…” Then Scott snorts, shakes his head. Slides a hand over the space between them too, wanting to reassure Chris that really, wondering about what Scott got up to before isn’t a crime. “No. Nope, not even close. She thought I was kind of a chump, and I wasn’t—I wasn’t an alpha yet.”

When Scott’s hand gets within a couple inches of Erica, he stops and just lets it sit on the bed. He can tell she’s paying attention; Chris notices too, glancing at her and then struggling a little bit because Chris definitely doesn’t like the idea of somebody thinking of Scott like that, but at the same time, it’s obviously not the girl cuddling up to him. Chris’ expression gets that specific kind of pained that Stiles refers to as a time migraine and Scott can’t help a low chuckle.

Erica smells nervous, but the noise she makes is more curious than anything else. Scott makes a responding burr, doing his best to keep the alpha rumble to a minimum, and then, when she doesn’t tense up any more than she already is, he carefully lifts his hand and arm off the bed. He rubs his fingertips together so she can hear it and reaches over her till he can just stroke the side of Chris’ neck.

Chris presses into it, purring, turning his head so his lips brush at the underside of Scott’s wrist. Scott lets the pressure push his hand up till he’s feathering his fingers into Chris’ hair and Chris arches and—ends up bumping Erica.

She makes a protesting noise and Scott gets his other hand up to steady the back of her head. Chris drops his head and tightens his arm around her. Neither of them are really thinking, just acting, and Erica makes another, happier noise and settles down and they sigh at the same time and then look at each other, realizing what just happened.

“Knew she’d figure out you’re the good one,” Chris says, with a warm tinge to his voice. He loosens up his grip on her, then blinks in surprise as Scott just shifts up, keeping Erica in Chris’ hold as he slings his arm over Chris’ shoulder.

“She doesn’t _have_ to like alphas if she doesn’t want to. Or me,” Scott says. Which maybe comes out a little bit odd, from how Chris is looking at him. He gives his beta’s nape a light squeeze, letting Chris know he isn’t offended, and then shifts again, so he can look down at the top of Erica’s head. “It’s okay, I’m not holding a grudge against her or anything.”

“It does sound like you’re holding something,” Chris says, slow, reluctant, but pointed. “Well, if her pack doesn’t want her, I guess Talia’s going to…is she going to find somebody, or do it herself, or…or are you…”

Scott smiles. He knows that that’s not exactly the normal reaction and he takes a deep breath right after, to get ready for explaining himself. “We’re going to make sure she gets taken care of, but I think it’s up to her who she wants. She’s old enough to show whether she likes somebody or not, and I think she deserves to have an opinion here.”

“I think she’s getting used to you,” Chris says. He moves his arm, working out a cramp from how his mouth twitches, and Erica rolls a little bit, enough so that her curls flop out of the way to show a tiny ear. “You know I’ll—”

“That doesn’t mean we’ll make you do it, if you don’t want to,” Scott adds. “I just meant—”

“I know, and I’m not—I don’t—I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m not going to back out just because of _that_ ,” Chris says, rushed and forceful and uncertain. “Just—can I ask if you want to, or if this is…is making up for something?”

“Kind of,” Scott says. Chris is surprised to get that right off the bat and Scott gives him a couple seconds. Just massages his neck and lets him unwind from how he was bracing himself for a longer push. “Kind of not. I didn’t actually know Erica that well, the first one. She didn’t like me, and we were actually in competing packs for a little bit, and then she…she got mixed up in this mess that wasn’t her fault and died and…this sounds bad, but I didn’t think about that too much till we started jumping timelines and I met other ones.”

Chris hums an acknowledgement, looking steadily at Scott. Just waiting for the rest, like he usually does. He gets upset about missing a patrol but honestly, listening like this does a lot more for Scott than a month of patrols.

“They lived longer, and I got to know them better, and I…just think sometimes that maybe the first Erica I knew, maybe we would’ve gotten along, if she hadn’t died so early. And I—I look back and I see all these times when I could’ve done more,” Scott says after a long pause. “Helped her out. I wasn’t an alpha yet for a reason.”

“Even if you had, she would’ve ended up getting that plague, right?” Chris says.

“Yeah, Stiles brings that up too,” Scott sighs. He rubs at Chris’ nape for a few seconds, just because it makes him feel better to see how it relaxes the other man. “I think it’s that when I started getting to know other Ericas, it made me really think about how we were changing things. When we started, I think we had this idea that everybody would be exactly the same in every world, it’s just the _events_ that change, but that’s not how timelines work. We end up changing people too and this is the part that’s not about the first Erica, this is just…it’s a big deal, changing people.”

“But if it’s for the better,” Chris says. He pauses, then nudges his head forward. They’re actually pretty close, Scott suddenly realizes, their faces only a couple inches apart now. “I’ll tell you this, I think I’d be dead right now if you weren’t around.”

Scott smiles and a trace of annoyance goes across Chris’ face. So Scott stops smiling and Chris looks annoyed again, but with himself, and Scott just has to pull his hand around and shape it alongside Chris’ cheek. “Thanks, but still, it’s just—every time I see Erica, it kind of reminds me, be more careful than I was the first time around.”

He runs his thumb along the side of Chris’ nose, then strokes out over the cheekbone. Chris lets out a soft noise, liking it, but he’s not content with it and he pushes forward again. “Well, you _are_ ,” Chris says lowly, nearly touching his mouth to Scott’s. “You are, and honestly, Scott, you’re an alpha now and I’m pretty damn sure it’s for a good reason and—”

Chris’ mouth presses out the space between them, fever-hot. He’s always so warm, Scott thinks, warm and eager and so ready to just—just try. People look at them and for some reason take Chris for the cynical one, but Chris can hold Erica and look so wondering. Can kiss Scott like this, openmouthed, tipping his head up into Scott’s cradling palm like it’s a lifeline for him, can do things like that and look like it’s natural, like it doesn’t feel odd to him to feel that much that deeply.

Scott still needs a second. When he’s reminded that he’s not so burned-out and tired as he feels, when Chris kisses him and suddenly there’s a shock of heat in his gut like he can’t even remember. He has to just realize that it’s really him, and then—God, he’s so glad for it.

He drops his hand under Chris’ jaw, pushing it up as their kiss gets harder, more urgent. Chris groans and the way it makes his throat flutter against Scott’s fingers, God, Scott growls back, slides his leg forward and Chris is already moving his knees apart for it and—

Erica makes a high-pitched, upset noise. Before she’s even peaked, Chris is jerking free of Scott’s hand, reaching up to touch dark spots on the front of his shirt—Scott looks down, realizing Erica didn’t go with him, and finds Erica rolled on her back and staring up at him. She has one hand up against her mouth, but as he watches, the other one flails up, vaguely in his direction. He bends down and her hand comes up again and scratches his jaw.

“Ow,” Scott says, wincing.

It’s not a deep scratch and it’s long-healed by the time he gets a hand up to wipe at it. Erica stares at him some more, then wiggles back over onto her side. She looks at Chris, who sighs and reaches out to bundle her in towards him. “I’m not sure, but I think drawing blood means she likes you,” Chris says.

“Looks like you’re getting the hang of her,” Scott says, amused.

Chris smiles but it’s a little tight. And he realizes that and looks a little nervously up at Scott. “I think other people might do that faster.”

“Maybe.” Scott crawls back over, careful to give Erica enough room, and then weaves his arm past her to lightly tip Chris’ chin up. If the other man doesn’t want to meet his eyes, then Chris doesn’t have to, but he just wants Chris to know he’d rather have that. “But do you want a shot? Besides my issues, all right, because I can keep those away from her. She’s way too young to deal with them. And I’ll be happy being an uncle to her, too.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Chris says abruptly, eyes wide. He bites his lip and his chin dips a little bit, but ultimately it’s him pulling that back up, not Scott. “Cora’s different. She’s always got Laura and Derek around and they yell if you do anything that’s not what Peter or Talia do, and…and I used to be a hunter and—and I just never even thought about kids, I told you.”

“Okay,” Scott says.

He leaves it at that. Chris is waiting for more, and looks almost frustrated that he doesn’t provide it. Then the other man takes a deep breath. He looks down at Erica, then slowly raises his head; his eyes are still wide, but with surprise and not panic.

“I don’t even know _why_ I want to,” Chris says. “I just—it doesn’t make sense. I don’t think—Talia’s not—do you really—you really think…”

“You want to?” Scott says.

Chris grimaces and glances away, then just about drags his head back to look at Scott. “I—yeah,” he says, very low, with a fair amount of guilt. “It’s just…really peaceful holding her. You know, when she’s not sinking her claws into me—” he returns Scott’s snort with a half-smile “—but that’s a stupid reason to do it.”

“I am pretty sure people have kids for stupider reasons,” Scott says, though he softens it by running his fingers along Chris’ jaw. “Hey, you want to, and I’d…I’d like to try. We could do it for a bit, and if it turns out we’re not right for her, then we’ll get her somebody who is. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” Chris mutters, so low he’s barely audible. He presses his lips together, then keeps them that way as he sucks in a huge breath through his nose. He looks at Scott, still disbelieving, but also, just the tiniest bit excited, and then, much more firmly: “Okay. Okay. We’ll…we’ll see if she takes us or not.”

Scott smiles at him, and then just has to lean over and drop a kiss on Chris’ mouth. Chris gets barely a second to reciprocate before Erica shifts and Scott drops back. “Yeah, I’m guessing squishing is not the way to win you over,” Scott says, risking a light pat to her head. “We’ll work on that, promise.”

Erica makes a sleepy noise. He smiles at her again, and then shifts himself up towards the headboard. Slides a hand under Chris’ shoulder as he goes; Chris is lifting himself anyway and Scott just gives that a little support, till Chris can swing around to get his head and shoulders across Scott’s legs. Chris presses his cheek down into Scott’s thigh for a second, then lets up and a quiet, tentative sigh comes out of him.

“Definitely owed some babysitting time from Talia and Peter, anyway,” Scott says. When Chris glances back at him, he shrugs and smiles and gives his beta a rub on the shoulder. “What? I try to be a good person, but I know I need breaks too. And you’ll be okay with her if you relax a little, and I’d be a bad alpha if I didn’t help you with that.”

Chris snorts, and then breaks into a full, if very soft and careful laugh, trying not to shake Erica too much. “I guess with a plan like that, we should do all right.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah, honestly, I think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mental image for David is Luke Evans without the British accent. He's not totally an Evil Peter replacement, as I see him as more being that troublemaking relative who always expects the family to bail him out, but who is not intentionally trying to murder them.


	2. Epilogue

Some days being a werewolf is not a good thing.

It’s not the hunters who periodically come after them, or the other supernatural stuff that always seems to be homicidal, or even the tricky explaining to outsiders part. It’s how, when Derek wakes up after a night of too much drinking and several bad decisions, all he does is inhale—because he needs to _breathe_ —and the smell of the other person in bed with him immediately tells him everything he could’ve waited a few more minutes to know.

“Fuck,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Uh. I mean. My sisters—”

“Are never, ever hearing about this or I will rip off your balls and _then_ tell Chris so Daddy goes bonkers on your ass,” Erica says savagely. 

Okay, on the other hand, maybe this will not go too horribly. “Great. What I was thinking.”

Erica makes a grumpy noise. Then levers herself up, just till Derek can see the frizz of her hair, before letting herself flop back with a disgruntled moan. “Ugh, why don’t I ever remember that Uncle Stiles’ bootleg fucks you over _so_ bad in the morning?”

“I think because we only work up the nerve to steal it when we’re really, really upset about something, and we don’t care what happens next,” Derek mutters.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Erica tries to sit up again, and this time, she makes it. She doesn’t look that steady, but she stays up. “Um. So. Listen. It was—really good, actually, and your abs are still disgustingly hot things to have on a family member, but…Derek, I don’t think I can deal with remembering you used to bribe me with gummi worms to play pattycake with Cora so you didn’t have to.”

“I’m okay with a one-night rebound if you are,” Derek grunts, pushing himself up. He takes a second to steady his wildly spinning head, and then lunges for the bathroom.

Screaming like the banshee Lydia actually is, Erica hurls herself—onto him, not at the bathroom. And she’s goddamn heavy for her size, and sticky like glue, and fights him for every inch they wrestle towards the doorway. Then she steps on his head and gets to the shower first.

She also goes back and gets him some fresh clothes when it’s finally his turn to wash off, but still. Derek is so grateful they’re way, way too related—even if it’s not through blood—for this to even have a chance to work out.

“I’m just saying, if Boyd and I both think he’s a dickhead, he’s probably a dickhead,” Derek mutters as they walk down the stairs. Thankfully, they’ve got the house all to themselves too, because now that he’s up, he can remember that he didn’t actually eat anything with all that booze and his stomach is demanding that he fix that immediately. “Don’t you usually listen to Boyd?”

“Yeah, and also you, because you are honestly kind of an expert on dickheads,” Erica says, with a far too sunny grin. “But he brought me fresh ducks! He even picked off all the feathers! I figured I’d get a hunt or two out of it and I guess I got distracted by the ass. Which was a good ass, and don’t look at me like that, there’s no way to explain you-know-who without referencing the frontal view.”

“It wasn’t just that,” Derek says, as Erica makes gratuitous plumping motions with her hands in front of her own breasts, and they both go around the corner and suddenly find themselves facing Peter.

“What are you,” Peter says, inhaling. He stops, looks very pained, and then turns around and steps to the side. 

“Oh, hello, kids,” says Great-Uncle David, right behind where Peter was standing. Sitting at the kitchen island with a very stone-faced, much younger woman…handcuffed to him?

Erica makes a choking sound, then shakes herself out of it just as Peter comes back with a wooden rack of glass bottles in one hand. Then she starts choking again, while jabbing her finger at Peter. “You’re not supposed to be here!” she snaps. “You’re supposed to be banging Uncle Stiles through that insane rare books fair!”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Peter says, looking very put-upon. He jams the rack of bottles into Derek’s hands and then grabs Derek and Erica by an arm each, ushering them towards the side of the kitchen. “Unfortunately, family interfered. And since I’m already dealing with that, I would very much appreciate it if you would _remember_ to use the _descenting potions_ to erase your crimes against sanity as well as the regular soap. Do it. Now. Before _I_ have to remember this.”

“We’re not together,” Derek blurts out. “It just—”

“If I have details, I have to remember,” Peter says, glaring at him.

“I love details!” Great-Uncle David calls from behind him. “They make the picture, really.”

Peter turns around and growls and Great-Uncle David keeps on looking like this is the most delightful thing ever. At least, right up till the woman he’s cuffed to pulls out a taser and aims it at his neck. Then he looks a little worried.

“I truly regret having to point this out,” Peter sighs. “But if you hit him there, he might lose control of his bowels and I believe we’re already in the middle of a shit-mopping operation.”

“True,” says the woman, though she just moves the taser to David’s arm.

“So…should I tell the Dadsters that David’s got a new…” Erica gestures vaguely.

“Independent contractor,” David says.

“Ex-girlfriend.” The woman’s face continues to be expressionless. “It was a bad week for me.”

Erica nods in sympathy. “Totally know the—”

“No, you will not tell them, because you will be in the bathroom, doing perfectly innocent things that I will not mention to Scott or Chris if you get in there right now,” Peter snaps. “Or your mother, Derek. Or Lydia.”

“Okay, fine, going,” Derek says, backing up.

At least, he tries to, but somebody walks up from behind and he has to step forward to get past Erica before he can let them pass him. And…it has to be Uncle Stiles. “Hey, hey, obvious morning-after regrets,” Stiles says, giving Derek and Erica simultaneous hair-ruffles. “And hey, skeevy uncle and Braeden. Fun times all around, I see.”

“Well, considering the smell around here after my visits, it is,” David says with a pointed look at Peter. “If anything, I’d think I’m someone to look forward to for you two.”

Stiles laughs and slings his arm over a clearly-seething Peter’s shoulders. He nuzzles the side of Peter’s neck, which makes Peter look marginally less irritated—right till David smarms something about how he likes Stiles’ new haircut, and then Stiles sighs and takes his arm off Peter and plants his hand squarely on Peter’s ass. “Actually, Derek, Erica? Why don’t you use the basement bathroom? It’s got better soundproofing.”

“I…sure, yeah, whatever,” Derek says, averting his eyes from his uncle and hustling himself and Erica out of there. “See you later, Great-Uncle.”

“None of us were here, Derek!” Peter snaps after him. “Try and remember that for once, would you?”

“ _God_ , we know already,” Erica mutters as they clatter down the basement stairs. She shakes her head, then grabs a bottle of descenter from the rack. “Totally why our generation’s not doing it within the pack.”

“Absolutely not,” Derek agrees. “Worst idea ever.”

“Ever,” Erica says vehemently. Right before she beats him to the shower again. 

Stupid pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Chris eventually have their own place, but it's just down the street so Erica basically grew up with the Hale kids, and the whole familiarity breeds contempt thing normally gives her immunity to Derek's abs.
> 
> I was resisting this idea for the longest time, but ultimately, Scott/Chris here was pretty much designed for accidental baby acquisition. And I couldn't resist the urge to give Talia and Peter a creepy uncle to go with the homicidal one I killed off.


End file.
